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ABBIE 


ABBIE  SAUNDERS. 


Story  of  Pioneer  Days 


IN   MINNESOTA. 


BY  MARY  A.  MORTON. 


FRESNO,   GAL. 

PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR. 
1892. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1892,  by 

MARY  A.    MORTON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington  D.  C. 


StacK 
Annex 


TO 

Ocnr    JVuttt, 

WHOSE    KIND    INTEREST    GREATLY    ENCOURAGED    THE 

WRITING   OF   THESE   PAGES,   IS  THIS    BOOK 

RESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED    BY 


PREFACE. 


IN  this  age  of  the  world,  when,  as  it  were,  a  flood  of 
trashy  literature  is  sweeping  over  the  land,  developing  the 
habit  of  reading  without  thought,  and  putting  fantastic  ideas 
of  life,  which  are  as  untrue  as  they  are  unreal,  into  the  minds 
of  the  young,  it  would  be  out  of  place  to  make  any  apol 
ogy  for  the  present  effort  to  aid  in  stemming  this  tide  of  evil. 

There  are  many  ways  in  which  this  good  work  might  be  ac 
complished.  Among  these  might  be  mentioned  the  precept 
and  example  of  those  who  are  in  authority  over  the  young, 
or  are  held  in  high  esteem  by  them.  A  word  from  such 
explaining  the  nature  of  trashy  reading,  and  its  effect  upon 
the  mind,  from  a  physical  standpoint,  will  often  have  the 
effect  of  causing  young  people  to  take  heed  to  their  course 
before  they  have  gone  too  far,  thereby  becoming  unable  to 
concentrate  their  minds  upon  any  other  than  that  which  is 
light  and  trifling.  When  such  precept  is  coupled  with  ex 
ample  in  the  same  direction,  it  will  have  a  still  more  benefi 
cial  effect. 

But  the  young  must  have  something  to  read  which  is  pleas 
ing,  and,  therefore,  not  a  task.  The  most  common  excuse 
for  indulging  in  romance  is  that  there  must  be  some  relaxa 
tion  from  study.  This  is  true.  The  physical  system  requires 
change  of  occupation,  so,  also,  does  the  mental  organism 
This  change  must  be  something  into  which  the  individual 
will  enter  with  zest,  or  no  good  will  be  accomplished.  If 
there  is  nothing  better  provided  for  such  an  emergency,  the 
inevitable  result  will  be  that  recourse  will  be  had  to  that 


PREFACE. 

which  is  degenerating  in  its  nature.  How  important  it  is, 
therefore,  that,  in  keeping  the  mind  in  the  right  channel, 
books  at  once  true  to  life  and  deeply  interesting  should  be 
placed  before  the  reading  public. 

While  authors  should  not  ignore  the  thrilling  incidents  of 
real  life,  of  which  there  are  many  in  every  person's  expe 
rience,  still  they  should  not  make  such  the  predominating 
feature  of  the  tale.  In  the  following  pages  the  story  of 
Abbie  Saunders  is  told  in  a  highly  interesting  style,  and 
with  careful  regard  for  exact  truth,  the  names  only  being 
fictitious.  The  old  adage  that  "truth  is  often  stranger 
than  fiction,"  is  strongly  exemplified  in  these  chapters.  Al 
though  the  sequence  of  events  and  style  of  narrative  are 
such  as  to  create  a  deep  interest  at  the  very  beginning,  and 
hold  the  same  to  the  close,  the  tendency  of  the  story  is  to 
nerve  the  reader  to  greater  earnestness  in  the  duties  of  every 
day  life,  instead  of  unfitting  him  for  those  duties. 

The  thread  of  Christian  experience  is  woven  in  so  natu 
rally  as  to  cause  the  reader  involuntarily  to  desire  the  same 
experience.  While  this  is  not  made  so  prominent  as  to  repel 
unbelievers,  yet  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  narrative  with 
out  perceiving  that  the  sustaining  power  which  was  with 
Miss  Saunders  emanated  from  the  throne  of  grace.  This  is 
the  strongest  impression  left  upon  the  reader  in  finishing  the 
book.  From  this  reason,  if  from  no  other,  Christians  should 
aid  in  its  circulation.  A.  J.  MORTON. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.     Childhood  Days n 

II.     Incidents  of  Girlhood  Days 16 

III.  Charley  Reynolds 35 

IV.  The  Family  Move  West 43 

V.     The  Wedding 55 

VI.     Darker  Days 69 

VII.    The  Birth  of  Little  Ella 76 

VIII.     Further  Cruelties 91 

IX.     Abbie  Rescued  from  Danger —  102 

X.     Rushford's  Departure  and  Return 114 

XL     The  Trial 129 

XII.     Arrest  and  Trial  for  Divorce 141 

XIII.  Rushford  Escapes  and  Appears  as  a  Ghost 148 

XIV.  Further  Annoyances  from  Rushford 170 

XV.     Abbie  Visits  Her  Brother 185 

XVI.     Rushford's  Plots 193 

XVII.     Executing  His  Plot 204 

XVIII.     Rushford  Kidnaps  the  Child 222 

XIX.     The  Flight 234 

XX.    Jim  Brooks'  Story 249 

XXI.     Recovery  of  the  Child 270 

XXII.  The  Case  Finally  Decided  in  Abbie's  Favor ...  284 


ABBIE  SAUNDERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

CHILDHOOD      DAYS. 

N  the  broad  prairies  of  Illinois,  some  twenty 
miles  from  Galena,  might  be  seen,  at  the 
time  our  story  opens,  a  farmhouse,  stand 
ing  on  a  small  eminence,  and  overlooking  a  meadow, 
beyond  which  flowed  the  small  stream  known  as 
Muddy  Branch.  This  stream  was  the  boundary 
line  on  one  side  of  some  two  hundred  acres  of  land, 
which  we  will  call  Olney  farm.  Its  present  owner, 
Mr.  Saunders,  had  started,  some  seven  years  before, 
from  the  State  of  Michigan,  to  find  a  home  on  the 
famed  prairies  of  Illinois.  He  brought  with  him 
his  wife  and  four  small  children. 

After  much  weary  traveling,  he  arrived  in  Ga 
lena,  and  was  obliged  to  stop  there,  as  winter  was 
coming  on.  Here  was  born  the  heroine  of  our 
story,  who  was  called  Abigail.  The  names  of  the 
older  ones  were  respectively,  Erastus,  Andy,  Ar- 
villa,  and  William. 

The  next  spring,  having  selected  his  farm,  he  re 
moved  thither  with  his  family,  and  then  commenced 

(II) 


12  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

a  life  of  toil  and  hardship  such  as  falls  to  the  lot  of 
nearly  every  settler  in  a  new  country. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  follow  them  through  these 
seventeen  years,  but  come  immediately  to  the  year 
1855,  in  which  our  story  opens. 

The  little  shingle  shanty  first  erected  has  given 
place  to  the  commodious  log  house,  and  that  in 
turn  to  the  tasteful  frame  building  which  now  meets 
your  gaze. 

The  slender,  sickly  husband  has  grown  healthy 
and  strong,  the  young  wife  has  become  the  stately 
matron,  and  the  children  whom  we  first  saw,  young 
men  and  maidens.  Other  children  have  been  added 
to  the  household,  and  they  are  now  a  family  often, 
besides  one  pure  bud  which  had  been  laid  in  an 
early  grave.  Prosperity  has  visited  them,  and  their 
sons  and  daughters  have  grown  up  a  blessing 

Erastus,  the  eldest,  is  a  bright,  impulsive  young 
man,  who  fills  the  house  with  life  and  fun.  Andy 
is  more  quiet  and  sedate,  thinking  more  of  doing  a 
kind  action  than  of  making  sport.  Arvilla,  the  eld 
est  daughter,  is  married,  and  lives  near  her  parents. 
William  is  a  tall,  handsome  boy  of  nineteen.  And 
now  we  come  to  Abigail,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and 
the  heroine  of  our  story.  We  cannot  call  her  hand 
some,  yet  there  is  something  in  her  bright  black 
eyes  and  full  red  lips  that  makes  her  interesting. 
No  one  in  those  days  would  have  selected  her  for  a 
heroine.  As  it  is  not  her  beauty,  but  her  disposi 
tion,  that  interests  us,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it. 


CHILDHOOD    DAYS.  1 3 

It  becomes  necessary  here  to  speak  of  her  early 
childhood.  At  the  age  of  ten  years  she  made  a 
public  profession  of  religion.  She  had  for  years 
been  a  praying  child,  not  the  senseless  form  most 
children  pray,  but  with  a  firm  belief  in  the  efficacy 
of  prayer.  Her  mother,  a  truly  pious  woman,  early 
strove  to  impress  upon  her  mind  the  uselessness  of 
prayer  unless  she  believed  in  the  power  of  God  to 
hear  and  answer  her  prayer. 

Many  a  pleasant  hour  have  they  spent  while 
conversing  upon  this  all-important  subject,  the 
mother  striving  to  give  her  daughter  a  true  under 
standing  of  the  relations  we  bear  toward  our  Cre 
ator,  and  the  daughter  treasuring  up  her  every 
word,  to  be  remembered  in  after  years  of  darkness 
and  trial.  At  one  time,  after  a  conversation  of  this 
nature,  she  received  permission,  with  her  little 
brother  and  sister,  to  go  to  Muddy  Branch  and 
slide  on  the  ice.  This  was  a  great  treat  and  the 
children  were  delighted.  Owing  to  the  stream  be 
ing  fed  by  living  springs,  it  was  much  of  the  time 
unsafe,  but  as  the  cold  had  been  intense  for  some 
days,  it  was  considered  safe.  After  being  warmly 
wrapped  up,  they  started  off  with  happy  hearts. 
On  arriving  at  the  crossing,  what  was  their  dismay 
to  find  that  the  ice,  instead  of  presenting  the  smooth 
surface  they  had  expected,  was  somewhat  sunken 
in  the  middle  and  large  cracks  ran  along  the  edge. 

Abbie,  not  being  enough  of  a  philosopher  to  ac 
count  for  this  by  natural  laws,  was  afraid  to  ven- 


14  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

ture,  and  stood  a  long  time  thinking  what  to  do. 
It  was  a  severe  disappointment  to  give  up  her  sport. 
Her  mother,  she  thought,  would  not  have  given 
her  consent  if  it  had  not  been  safe,  and  yet  she 
dared  not  trust  herself  upon  the  ice.  At  last,  re 
membering  the  conversation  of  the  morning,  she 
fell  upon  her  knees,  and,  telling  God  her  fears,  asked 
him  to  protect  her  and  her  brother  and  sister  from 
harm.  She  rose  from  her  knees  with  perfect  faith 
that  he  had  heard  and  would  answer  her  prayer. 
Running  upon  the  ice,  she  soon  found,  to  her  great 
joy,  that  it  was  firm.  They  were  soon  as  happy  as 
though  no  fear  had  entered  their  hearts. 

That  evening  Abbie  repeated  the  occurrence  of 
the  afternoon.  Her  wise  mother,  seeing  that  she 
was  in  danger  of  making  a  wrong  use  of  her  faith 
in  God,  tried  to  explain  to  her  where  she  was  at 
fault.  She  explained  to  her  the  cause  of  the  cracks 
in  the  ice,  told  her  it  was  really  safe,  and  that  the 
answer  God  had  given  her  was  not  in  making  the 
ice  more  safe,  but  in  taking  the  foolish  fear  from  her 
heart. 

"  But,"  she  continued,  "if,  on  arriving  at  the  spot, 
you  had  found  the  ice  really  unsafe,  and  had  thrown 
yourself  upon  it,  he  would  not  have  worked  a  mira 
cle  to  save  you.  Besides,  you  would  have  displeased 
him  by  not  making  use  of  the  reason  he  has  given 
you.  Remember,  my  dear  child,  that  your  reason 
was  given  you  for  a  guide,  and  it  is  your  duty  to 
use  it.  You  have  no  right  to  ask  God  to  work  a 


CHILDHOOD    DAYS.  I  5 

miracle  to  save  you  from  the  consequences  of  a  rash 
act." 

Abbie  pondered  upon  her  mother's  words,  and 
many  times  in  after  years  she  had  cause  to  remem 
ber  them.  She  did  not  lose  her  faith  in  prayer,  but 
she  strove  to  use  the  reason  of  which  her  mother 
had  spoken.  It  is  no  wonder  that,  with  such  a  wise 
teacher  and  her  own  desire  to  learn,  coupled  with 
the  Spirit  of  God  in  her  heart,  she  grew  up  a  firm, 
consistent  Christian. 

We  will  spend  no  more  time  over  the  incidents 
of  her  childhood,  but  come  immediately  to  our  story. 


CHAPTER    II. 

INCIDENTS    OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS. 

L.  SAUNDERS'  business  had  increased  to 
such  an  extent  that  he  was  now  obliged  to 
hire  much  of  his  work  done.  Some  fa 
vored  hand  was  often  taken  into  the  house  and 
treated  as  one  of  the  family.  About  this  time  a 
young  man  by  the  name  of  Rushford  came  into  the 
place  looking  for  a  home  and  work.  He  was  the 
son  of  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  Mrs.  Saunders, 
and  was,  accordingly,  immediately  hired  by  Mr. 
Saunders.  Being  a  quiet,  steady  young  man  and 
faithful  workman,  he  soon  gained  the  respect  of  his 
employer  and  the  good-will  of  his  associates.  As 
he  was  always  treated  as  one  of  the  family,  he  was 
often  in  the  company  of  Abbie,  who,  knowing  the 
mind  of  her  father  concerning  the  young  man, 
treated  him  accordingly,  and  they  were  soon  inti 
mate  friends.  About  this  time  a  circumstance  hap 
pened  which,  though  amusing,  caused  a  feeling  of 
reserve,  amounting  to  coldness,  between  them. 

A  small  tenant  house  stood  a  short  distance  from 
the  farmhouse.     In  this  lived  a  Mr.  Ferris  with  his 
wife  and  two  little  girls,  and  Mr.  Elton  and  wife, 
uncle  and  aunt  of  Rushford's. 
(16) 


INCIDENTS   OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  I/ 

One  day  a  poster  was  stuck  up  on  the  highway 
near  Mr.  Saunders'  announcing  a  grand  caravan 
and  circus  at  W.,  a  small  railroad  town  about  ten 
miles  away.  As  it  was  the  dull  season  of  the  year, 
several  of  the  "hands"  started  in  good  season  for 
the  village.  Among  them  went  Mr.  Elton,  taking 
with  him  his  young  and  handsome  wife,  and  leaving 
behind  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Elton's,  Susie  Jones,  a  girl 
of  eighteen  or  nineteen. 

Mrs.  Ferris,  who  was  somewhat  of  an  invalid,  had 
been  more  unwell  than  usual  fora  few  days,  and  her 
sister,  a  pretty  girl  of  nineteen,  had  come  to  nurse 
her. 

Abbie,  standing  at  the  window  of  her  room,  saw 
Mr.  Elton  drive  past,  and,  knowing  where  he  was 
going,  began  to  feel  lonely  as  she  thought  of  the 
gay  time  in  store  for  them.  Her  brothers  had  gone 
away,  after  dressing  with  scrupulous  care,  evading 
her  questions  as  to  where  they  were  going,  and  she 
had  a  vague  idea  they  were  then  escorting  their 
sweethearts  to  the  show.  Her  father,  who  did  not 
believe  in  shows,  had  gone  to  the  village  on  busi 
ness.  (Strange  how  business  happened  to  call  him 
on  that  particular  day !)  In  short,  she  was  lone 
some,  and,  thinking  of  Susie,  who  she  knew  was 
left  alone,  she  started  across  the  orchard  to  pay  her 
a  visit.  She  found  her  sitting  by  the  window  look 
ing  lonely  enough. 

"Good-morning,  Susie,"  she  said,  as  she  entered 
the  room;  "you  look  as  lonely  as  I  feel  this  morn- 


1 8  ABBIE   SAUN7DERS. 

ing.  I  would  like  to  shake  that  brother-in-law  of 
yours;  I  think  it  was  too  bad  for  him  not  to  take 
you." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Rachel  Dorn,  entering  the  room 
at  that  moment;  "if  I  had  her  sister  here,  I  would 
shake  her." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  said  Susie,  "only  it  is  lone 
some  staying  alone!  Can't  you  come  and  stay  with 
me,  Abbie,  until  they  come  back  ?  We  could  have 
such  a  nice  visit." 

"I  should  like  to  very  much,"  answered  Abbie, 
"if  mother  can  spare  me." 

"Of  course  she'll  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  you,"  said 
Susie,  laughing;  "you  know  you  haven't  done  much 
since  you  were  sick." 

"Indeed,  I  have  been  quite  smart  for  a  day  or 
two,"  replied  Abbie;  "I  helped  mother  to-day  until 
everything  was  tidy,  and  then,  as  I  stood  by  the 
window  watching  the  teams  pass  for  the  circus,  she 
said  I  had  better  run  over  and  see  you.  I  suppose 
my  face  looked  pretty  long,  I  wanted  so  much  to 
go  to  the  circus.  They  say  there  is  a  large  menag 
erie  with  it,  and  I  would  so  like  to  see  the  animals. 
I  have  never  seen  one." 

"Never  been  to  a  menagerie?  "  cried  Rachel  in 
astonishment. 

"No,"  said  Abbie;  "I  remember  when  I  was  a 
very  little  girl  my  uncle  and  aunt  took  me  to  a  cir 
cus,  but  there  was  no  menagerie  with  it." 

Mrs.  Ferris  had  heard  what  the  girls  said,  and, 


INCIDENTS   OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  IQ 

being  a  kind-hearted  woman,  sympathized  with 
them  in  their  disappointment.  She  knew  her  hus 
band  had  stayed  at  home  because  she  was  not  well 
enough  to  go  with  him.  She  at  once  made  up  her 
mind  that  he  should  go  that  evening  and  take  the 
three  girls.  Calling  them  into  the  bedroom,  she 
disclosed  her  plan. 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment 
for  a  moment,  and  then  Rachel  said,  "  But,  sister, 
will  not  the  men  think  us  bold  to  propose  such  a 
plan?" 

"  I  will  ask  Henry  myself,"  she  answered ;  "  surely 
I  may  be  allowed  that  privilege  without  being  called 
bold." 

"But,"  continued  Rachel,  "Mr.  Rushford  is  at 
work  with  him  to-day,  and  I  fear  he  will  think  we 
meant  to  give  him  a  hint." 

"  I  will  manage  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ferris. 

And  so  it  was  agreed  that  they  were  to  go  if  it 
could  be  arranged,  and  Abbie  went  home  to  consult 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Saunders,  not  liking  the  plan, 
would  not  give  her  consent,  and  Abbie  gave  up  go 
ing.  She  felt  somewhat  disappointed,  but  went  im 
mediately  to  tell  the  girls  of  her  decision. 

She  found  the  family  at  dinner.  Mr.  Ferris  said 
he  would  go  if  they  would  accept  young  Rushford 
as  one  of  the  party.  To  this  they  of  course  agreed, 
and  all  joined  in  regrets  that  Abbie  could  not  be 
one  of  the  party,  Rushford  saying  he  would  not  go 
if  she  did  not.  Abbie  was  sorry  she  had  had  any- 


2O  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

thing  to  do  with  it.  She  seemed  to  be  spoiling  the 
pleasure  of  the  whole  party.  The  men  soon  re 
turned  to  their  work,  while  Abbie  stayed  a  short 
time  to  chat  with  the  other  girls.  They  seemed 
very  much  disappointed,  and  said  they  would  not 
enjoy  their  ride  if  she  did  not  go. 

She  at  last  left  them,  feeling  more  sorry  on  their 
account  than  her  own.  She  tried,  by  joining  her 
mother  in  the  afternoon  work,  to  forget  the  occur 
rence  of  the  morning.  When  all  was  finished,  she 
went  into  her  own  room,  took  up  her  sewing,  and 
sat  down  at  the  window.  From  where  she  sat  she 
could  see  the  spring  from  which  the  water  for  both 
houses  was  brought,  the  orchard,  with  its  long, 
straight  rows  of  choice  fruit  trees,  and  the  tenant 
house,  peeping  out  from  among  the  leaves.  She 
had  not  sat  there  long  before  she  saw  Mr.  Rushford, 
apparently  coming  to  the  spring  for  water.  He 
filled  his  canteen,  and  then,  seeing  Abbie  at  the 
window,  he  came  up  and  said : — 

"So  you  will  not  join  our  party  to-night?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  looking  up,  "though  I  am 
sorry  to  disappoint  the  girls." 

"  It  will  disappoint  them,"  he  said,  "for  Mr.  Ferris 
says  he  will  not  go  if  I  do  not,  and  you  know  what 
I  said  at  noon." 

He  waited  a  moment,  but,  receiving  no  answer, 
continued,  "If  you  go,  you  will  confer  a  great  favor 
upon  us  all." 

Abbie  felt  quite  perplexed,  but,  after  conferring 


INCIDENTS    OK    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  21 

with  her  mother,  decided  to  go.  As  it  was  late,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  start  in  an  hour.  Abbie 
noticed  that,  as  Mr.  Rushford  passed  up  the  road, 
he  made'a  sign  to  Mr.  Ferris,  who  soon  left  the  field 
and  went  to  the  house. 

Abbie  wasted  no  time,  and  was  soon  ready  for 
her  ride.  While  waiting  for  the  carriage,  and  ex 
pecting  every  moment  to  see  her  young  friends 
appear  at  the  door  ready  for  their  ride,  she  was 
surprised  to  see  Susie  enter,  in  her  home  dress.  As 
she  caught  sight  of  Abbie,  she  said,  "So  you  are 
going  after  all,  are  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "Mr.  Rushford  came  and 
persuaded  me  that  it  was  my  duty  to  go,  as  you  were 
all  so  anxious.  But  you  are  not  ready,  Susie?  I 
am  expecting  the  carriage  every  moment,  and  was 
afraid  you  would  get  started  first." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  ready  in  time !  "  and  with  a  look 
that  puzzled  Abbie,  she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Abbie  had  not  long  to  think  of  the  strange,  dis 
pleased  look  upon  Susie's  face.  The  carriage  soon 
came,  and  they  were  speedily  upon  the  road. 

As  they  passed  out  of  sight,  Abbie  wondered  why 
her  friends  did  not  start.  Her  companion  made  an 
evasive  answer,  and,  seeing  that  she  appeared  ill  at 
ease,  exerted  himself  to  make  her  forget  them,  and 
enjoy  her  ride. 

They  soon  arrived  at  their  destination,  and,  in 
the  bustle  and  confusion,  Abbie  gave  up  all  hopes  of 
meeting  them  that  evening,  and  gave  herself  up  to 


22  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

the  enjoyment  of  the  scene.  To  her  the  scene  was 
grand  and  beautiful.  The  great  tent,  with  its  bril 
liant  lights,  and  rows  of  seats  rising  one  above 
another,  filled  with  well-dressed  men  and  women, 
the  cages  of  wild  beasts,  few  of  which  she  had  ever 
seen  before,  the  kind  attentions  of  her  companion, 
all  combined  to  make  her  forget,  for  a  time,  at  least, 
the  conviction  that  had  been  forcing  itself  upon  her 
mind  that  all  was  not  right. 

On  the  way  home  Mr.  Rushford  said  he  did  not 
think  they  had  left  home,  and  Abbie  wondered 
much  what  could  have  kept  them.  As  she  entered 
her  room,  a  short  time  after,  her  little  sister  awoke, 
and  seeing  Abbie,  said: — 

"  So  you  are  back  again,  are  you  ?  Have  you 
had  a  pleasant  time?'" 

"  Very  pleasant,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  will  have  as  pleasant  a 
time  in  the  morning.  They  are  all  mad  at  you,  up 
at  the  other  house.  I  went  up  there  after  you  went 
away,  and  found  the  girls  crying,  and  Mrs.  Ferris 
declaring  she  would  not  have  believed  it  of  you 
— deceitful  thing — to  pretend  you  did  not  want  to  go, 
and  then  start  off  and  cheat  the  girls  out  of  their 
ride.  I  asked  why  they  did  not  go  too.  She  said 
Mr.  Rushford  had  contrived  it  all,  just  because  you 
felt  too  proud  to  go  with  Rachel.  Mr.  Ferris  tried 
to  take  your  part,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  him, 
saying  she  knew  she  was  right,  and  Rachel  should 
never  speak  to  you  again.  Then  Rachel  cried 
harder  than  ever." 


INCIDENTS    OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  23 

"  But  why  did  they  not  go  ?  "  asked  Abbie.  "  I 
can't  see  how  I  hindered  them." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mattie,  sleepily.  "You  can 
ask  them  in  the  morning." 

Abbie  lay  awake  a  long  time,  trying  to  think  how 
she  had  interfered  with  them.  At  last  she  gave  it 
up  in  despair,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

She  lost  no  time  the  next  morning  before  calling 
upon  her  young  friends,  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  in 
what  way  she  had  offended  them.  She  found  Mrs. 
Ferris  scolding,  and  she  would  not  even  answer 
Abbie's  salutation,  but  strove,  by  a  great  show  of 
dignity,  to  punish  her  for  her  slight.  Abbie,  who 
did  not  understand  the  cause  of  her  wrath,  was 
pained  to  see  this,  and  turned  toward  the  girls, 
who  were  both  present,  for  an  explanation.  They 
both  spoke  to  her.  Susie  looked  hurt  and  defiant. 
Rachel's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  as  Abbie 
spoke,  her  tears  flowed  afresh.  Poor  Abbie  stood 
as  if  stunned  for  a  moment. 

At  length,  gaining  the  command  of  her  voice,  she 
begged  Rachel  to  tell  her  what  she  had  done  to 
deserve  such  treatment. 

"What  have  you  done?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ferris, 
indignantly.  "  I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed 
to  ask  that  question,  after  doing  such  a  mean  thing, 
and  cheating  the  girls  out  of  their  ride." 

Mr.  Ferris  gave  her  a  warning  look,  but  it  only 
served  to  make  her  more  indignant.  "  You  may 
cringe  down  and  bear  it,  if  you  want  to,"  she  cried 


24  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

angrily,  "  I  shall  not,  without  giving  her  a  piece  of 
my  mind.  It  was  all  a  'put-up  job,'  just  because 
Abbie  feels  too  proud  to  go  with  the  girls.  Rachel 
is  just  as  good  as  she  is,  if  she  is  poor,  instead  of 
being  old  Saunders'  daughter." 

There  is  no  telling  how  much  she  might  have 
said  had  not  Rachel,  who  was  deeply  grieved  at  the 
turn  affairs  had  taken,  and  pained  at  what  her 
sister  said,  risen,  and,  taking  down  her  pail,  started 
to  milk  the  cows,  which  stood  in  their  yard,  waiting 
for  her. 

Abbie  watched  her  until  she  disappeared,  and 
she  felt  that  in  her  heart  there  was  more  grief  than 
anger.  Then,  turning  to  Susie,  she  begged  her  to 
tell  her  what  was  the  matter.  In  all  that  had  been 
said  she  could  not  tell  where  she  had  offended 
them.  Susie,  then,  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
told  her  that  Mr.  Ferris  had  engaged  the  only 
team  in  the  barn.  After  Abbie  had  consented  to 
go,  Mr.  Rushford  had  gone  to  the  old  gentleman, 
and,  telling  him  that  Mr.  Ferris  had  given  up  going, 
got  permission  to  take  the  single  horse  and  car 
riage,  thereby  spoiling  Mr.  Ferris'  team.  Of  course 
there  was  nothing  for  them  to  do  but  give  up  go 
ing. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ferris,  "and  you  needn't  pre 
tend  ignorance.  It  won't  do  any  good.  I  know  it 
was  agreed  to  between  you  and  Steve  Rushford, 
because  you  did  not  want  to  go  with  Rachel;  but 
you  needn't  be  so  smart;  she  is  just  as  good  as 
you  are." 


INCIDENTS   OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  2$ 

Abbie  was  too  surprised  to  answer.  She  saw  at 
once  what  a  strong  web  of  circumstantial  evidence 
was  woven  against  her.  Seeing  there  was  no  use 
of  talking  to  Mrs.  Ferris  while  in  her  present  state 
of  mind,  she  arose  slowly  and  left  the  house.  As 
she  passed  Mr.  Ferris,  their  eyes  met.  His  fell  to 
the  floor,  while  a  blush  overspread  his  face.  She 
wondered  at  this  for  a  moment,  but  other  thoughts 
soon  chased  it  from  her  mind.  She  felt  sad  that 
they  should  suspect  her  of  complicity  in  such  an 
act,  but  it  grieved  her  most  that  Rachel  should 
think  she  meant  to  slight  her,  whom  she  loved 
dearly,  and  she  hastened  to  avow  her  innocence. 

As  she  approached  her,  Rachel  looked  up  quickly 
and  then  let  her  eyes  fall  again.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  Abbie  saw  that  her  bosom  heaved,  and 
her  tears  fell  fast.  She  could  restrain  herself  no 
longer.  Bursting  into  tears,  she  exclaimed:  "O 
Rachel,  do  you  then  believe  what  your  sister  says  ? 
You  cannot  think  I  would  be  so  mean!" 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  wept  in  silence. 
Hers  was  no  vain  show  of  grief.  At  the  first  words 
Mrs.  Ferris  had  spoken  she  had  comprehended  the 
cause  of  Rachel's  grief,  and  full  well  did  she  knqw 
that  if  Rachel  for  a  moment  believed  her  sister's 
version  of  the  affair,  no  words  could  express  the 
grief  she  must  feel,  for,  although  among  them 
selves  she  was  called  'one  of  the  girls,'  young  as 
she  was,  her  lot  had  been  one  of  deep  trouble. 
About  two  years  before  this  she  had  married  the 


2.6  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

son  of  a  wealthy  farmer  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
for  a  time  was  happy.  From  this  state  she  was 
rudely  awakened  by  the  disappearance  of  her  young 
and  fickle  husband,  leaving  no  clue  to  his  destina 
tion.  He  left  his  young  wife,  who  was  shortly  to 
become  a  mother,  with  only  a  small  yearly  allow 
ance,  to  a  lonely,  anxious  life.  She  was  a  sweet, 
gentle  creature,  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her,  and 
with  many  staunch  friends,  among  the  dearest  of 
whom  she  had  counted  Abbie.  Their  tastes  were 
much  alike,  and  from  their  first  acquaintance  they 
had  loved  one  another. 

Abbie  had  heard  her  sad  story,  and  had  both 
felt  and  professed  great  sympathy  for  her.  So  far 
from  feeling  ashamed  of  her  company,  she  was 
proud  to  be  considered  her  friend,  and  would  not, 
willingly,  have  given  her  a  moment's  pain.  To  be 
suspected  of  so  open  a  slight  was  more  than  she 
could  bear,  and  she  determined,  if  possible,  to  re 
move  the  suspicion.  Before  she  could  speak, 
Rachel  rose,  and,  clasping  the  hand  of  her  young 
friend,  said:  "  No,  no,  dear  Abbie,  do  not  grieve  so. 
There  is  something  wrong  in  all  this,  but  in  my 
heart  I  feel  you  are  not  to  blame." 
•  "Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,"  cried  Abbie. 
"You  have  taken  the  heaviest  part  of  the  load  from 
me.  I  am  sorry  the  rest  are  angry  with  me,  but  I 
can  bear  that  if  you  do  not  think  me  untrue  to 
you." 

"  I  now  feel  perfectly  sure  you  have  been  true 


INCIDENTS    OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  2? 

to  me,  dear  friend,  but  someone  is  in  the  wrong. 
And,  O  Abbie!  you  never  can  know  what  I  have 
suffered  since  you  drove  away  last  night.  It  seemed 
to  bring  all  my  old  trouble  fresh  to  my  mind,  and 
the  fear  that  you  would  prove  untrue,  as  sister 
tried  to  make  me  believe,  was  almost  more  than  I 
could  bear.  Yet  I  did  not  believe  it,  even  then. 
When  I  saw  you  this  morning,  all  doubt  of  you 
vanished." 

"Thank  you  for  your  faith  in  me,  dear  Rachel," 
said  Abbie;  "but  can  you  form  no  idea  why  Rush- 
ford  should  act  as  he  did?  He  certainly  gave  me 
no  hint  that  you  were  not  going.  I  saw  Mr.  Ferris 
come  back  to  the  field  from  the  house,  and  they 
seemed  to  be  talking  earnestly  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  Rushford  took  the  pail,  and,  coming  to  the 
spring,  set  it  down,  came  to  the  window  where  I 
sat,  and  asked,  as  a  favor,  that  I  would  change  my 
mind  and  go.  I  supposed  that  you  had  decided 
not  to  go  unless  I  did,  so,  after  consulting  mother, 
I  told  him  I  would  go.  He  turned  hurriedly  away, 
saying  he  would  be  there  with  the  carriage  in  an 
hour,  and  I  rose  to  prepare  for  my  ride,  supposing 
I  had  removed  the  only  barrier  to  your  enjoyment. 
When  Susie  came  in,  I  was  very  much  surprised 
at  her  manner  and  at  her  not  being  dressed  for 
the  ride.  But  she  made  no  explanation,  and,  the 
carriage  coming  just  then,  I  had  no  time  to  find 
out  what  it  meant.  I  wondered  at  his  taking  a 
single  carriage  instead  of  going  with  you,  but, 


28  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

not  liking  to  ask,  I  said  nothing  and  we  drove 
away.  I  asked  if  you  would  start  soon,  and  he 
answered  that  you  were  not  ready  yet.  I  felt  dis 
appointed,  but  said  no  more,  although  I  kept  watch 
for  you.  He  must  have  known  that  I  was  looking 
for  you,  but  he  made  no  explanation.  So  now  you 
know  what  happened  as  well  as  I  can  tell  you.  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  I  was  not  only  deceived,  but  that 
it  was  intentional.  The  object  I  cannot  even  guess." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Rachel.  "  I  cannot  under 
stand  it.  Will  you  come  in?"  she  said  as  they  ap 
proached  the  house. 

"No,"  said  Abbie,  "I  must  go  now.  Cannot 
you  come  over  soon?  I  want  you  to  help  me  un 
ravel  the  mystery." 

"  I  will.     Good-morning." 

As  Rachel  entered  the  room,  she  was  surprised 
to  see  her  sister  in  tears,  and  hear  her  brother-in- 
law  say:  "  Well,  you  hadn't  orter  have  talked  to 
her  that  way,  nohow.  You'll  lose  me  my  place 
with  that  tongue  of  yours,  if  you  ain't  careful. 
And  then  what'll  we  do?  I  don't  know  another 
man  that'd  give  me  the  chance  Saunders  has.  By 
the  great  guns!  why  can't  a  woman  hold  her 
tongue?  The  gals  would  'a  been  mad,  but  they'd 
'a  forgot  it  in  a  few  days,  if  you  hadn't  'a  said  noth 
ing." 

"I  thought  she  meant  to  insult  Rachel,"  said 
Mrs.  Ferris,  sobbing,  "and  I  wasn't  going  to  stand 
it." 


INCIDENTS    OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  29 

"Oh,  by  the  great  guns!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Ferris, 
rising,  and  leaving  the  room  hastily,  for  he  hated  a 
scene.  In  fact,  it  was  the  fear  of  such  an  emergency 
that  had  caused  him  to  do  as  he  had. 

Susie  no  longer  looked  angry,  but  decidedly 
amused.  As  she  left  the  room,  Rachel  followed 
her,  anxious  to  know  what  it  all  meant.  On  enter 
ing  her  own  room,  Susie  threw  herself  into  a  chair, 
and  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?  "  asked  Rachel. 
"  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  laugh  at  such  a  time 
as  this." 

"At  such  a  time  as  this,"  gasped  Susie,  laughing 
more  than  ever.  "  Do  you  know  what  a  noble 
brother-in-law  you  have,  and  what  a  precious  set  of 
fools  we  have  been?" 

"I  cannot  understand  what  you  mean,"  said 
Rachel,  rather  inclined  to  be  angry.  She  could  not 
see  what  there  was  to  be  laughed  at. 

"So  you  don't,"  said  Susie.  "I  suppose  I  must 
tell  you." 

She  then  told  her  all  Mr.  Ferris  had  said  after 
Abbie  left  the  room.  As  she  listened,  a  look  of 
relief  came  over  Rachel's  face,  followed  by  one  of 
satisfaction,  as  she  saw  that  no  slight  had  been 
intended  to  her,  or  anyone  else,  and  that  Abbie 
was  entirely  cleared  from  suspicion. 

"I  must  go  and  tell  her,"  she  said. 

Returning  to  her  sister's  room,  she  put  things  to 
rights,  and,  leaving  her  sister  comfortable,  hastened 


30  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

to  her  young  friend.  She  found  her  looking  troubled 
and  sad.  She  looked  up  as  Rachel  entered,  and, 
seeing  her  smiling  face,  exclaimed: — 

"O  Rachel,  you  have  good  news  to  tell,  I  am 
sure!" 

"  Yes,  you  dear,  tender-hearted  little  girl,  I  have. 
And  now  please  drive  away  that  troubled  look, 
which  you  need  no  longer  wear,  and  listen  to  me, 
for  I  have  quite  an  amusing  story  to  tell,"  she  con 
tinued,  seating  herself  near  by.  "  It  seems  that  my 
precious  brother-in-law  did  not  relish  the  idea  of 
being  toted  off  by  a  couple  of  giddy  girls  to  the 
caravan,  perhaps  fearing  he  must  foot  the  bill  for 
the  crowd.  So,  after  they  returned  to  the  field,  he 
asked  Rushford  if  he  was  in  earnest  in  saying  what 
he  did  at  the  dinner  table. 

"'To  what  do  you  refer?'  asked  Rushford. 

"  'That  you  would  not  go  if  MissSaunders  did  not.' 

"  '  I  certainly  am.  That  would  be  my  only  attrac 
tion,  and  as  she  will  not  go,  I  shall  not.' 

'"Oh,  come,  now!'  entreated  Ferris;  'say  you 
will  go.  Either  of  the  other  girls  would  be  proud 
of  you  as  an  escort.  Besides,  how's  a  fellow  to  take 
care  of  two  girls  in  a  crowd  like  that,  I'd  like  to 
know?  ' 

"  But  Rushford  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 

with  it.    After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  Ferris  said: — 

'  I  say,  Steve,  I  have  it.     I  suppose  if  that  little 

black-eyed  midget  will  go,  you  don't  care  a  fig  for 

the  rest?' 


INCIDENTS    OF   GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  31 

" '  No  ;  what  then'  ? 

"  '  Well,  you  can  just  go  and  get  the  horse  and 
carriage  and  take  her.  Father  has  but  one  team 
in  the  stable  to-day,  so  if  you  get  the  single  car 
riage  of  course  I  can't  take  the  double  one.  So 
you  see  that  will  serve  me  and  yourself  too.' 

" '  But  do  you  suppose  she  would  go  ?  ' 

" '  In  course  she'd  go,'  said  Ferris.  '  I  know 
these  gals  better'n  you  do,  and  I  knoxv  she'd  go.' 

"  'But  if  your  plan  works,  the  other  girls  will  be 
down  on  us.  I  don't  think  she  will  go  on  that 
account.' 

" '  Don't  tell  her,  then.  She'll  find  it  out  soon 
enough.  I  guess  you've  a  right  to  take  her,  if  you 
want  to.' 

"Seeing  that  Steve  still  hesitated,  he  continued: 
'I'll  go  down  to  the  house  and  see  how  things 
look,  and  ;f  I  think  it'll  do,  I'll  tell  you.' 

"He  crossed  the  field  and  entered  the  house 
unseen.  He  heard  Susie  say : — 

"  'I  am  so  sorry  Abbie  is  not  going,'  and  me  say, 
'  So  am  I.  I  should  not  have  thought  of  going 
but  for  her.  I  would  rather  she  had  the  pleasure 
than  to  have  it  myself 

"Ferris  slipped  quietly  away,  and,  returning  to  the 
field,  related  what  he  had  heard,  and  told  Rushford 
to  go  ahead. 

"'If  I  only  thought,'  he  said,  musingly. 

" '  Don't  stop  to  think,'  interrupted  Ferris.  '  You 
can't  more  than  get  the  mitten,  and  that  won't  hurt 
you  any.' 


32  ABBJE   SAUNDERS. 

"  The  young  man  turned  hastily,  took  up  the 
pail,  and  the  rest  you  already  know.  There,"  she 
added,  rising,  arid  kissing  the  young  girl  affection 
ately,  "  I  have  made  quite  a  story  of  it.  Now  you 
must  promise  to  forgive  my  kind-hearted  but 
blundering  brother-in-law,  and  my  sister  for  speak 
ing  so  to  you,  and  we  shall  all  be  friends  again." 

Abbie  gave  the  desired  promise  and  Rachel 
returned  home.  But  Abbie  was  still  troubled.  She 
did  not  like  the  course  Rushford  had  taken.  She 
could  but  acknowledge  that  if  he  had  told  her 
how  things  stood,  she  would  have  refused  to  go 
at  once.  But  then  she  would  have  respected 
him,  while  now  she  felt  she  must  distrust  him. 
Had  he  told  her  when  she  inquired,  after  starting, 
that  they  were  not  coming,  she  could  not  have 
blamed  him  so  much,  for,  as  she  did  not  ask  about 
them  when  he  invited  her,  he  was  under  no  obliga 
tions  to  explain.  Instead  of  doing  this,  he  had 
intentionally  deceived  her,  and  had,  by  so  doing, 
given  pain  to  her  dear  friend,  and  caused  her  to  be 
thought  ill  of.  "But,"  she  thought,  "he  did  it 
entirely  for  my  pleasure;  I  must  therefore  forgive 
his  blunder."  She  herself  had  been  in  the  wrong 
in  allowing  her  foolish  thoughts  to  be  known.  She 
resolved  to  be  more  prudent  in  the  future,  and  to 
think  no  more  of  the  unpleasant  occurrence.  She 
did  not  for  a  moment  think  that  he  could  desire  to 
be  her  lover;  the  thought  would  have  frightened 
her.  No,  it  was  only  as  a  friend,  and  because  he 


INCIDENTS    OF    GIRLHOOD    DAYS.  33 

thought  it  would  give  her  pleasure.  In  spite  of 
this,  it  left  an  impression  upon  her  mind  that  she 
could  not  trust  him  implicitly. 

Though  she  did  not  think  she  had  changed  her 
manner  towards  him,  he  felt  a  coldness  which  not 
only  chilled  but  piqued  him,  and  he  vowed  he 
would  make  her  repent,  if  it  took  a  lifetime.  While 
cherishing  these  thoughts,  he  redoubled  his  exer 
tions  to  please  her  parents,  and  gain  her  affections, 
for  he  loved  the  young  and  unsuspecting  girl  as 
well  as  his  selfish  nature  would  permit.  From  that 
day  he  swore  to  make  her  his  wife,  by  fair  means 
or  by  foul.  He  meant  no  real  evil  in  this  threat, 
but  such  was  his  disposition  that,  if  thwarted  in  a 
pet  scheme,  he  must  have  revenge,  even  though  the 
person  offending  him  be  his  best  friend. 

He  knew  that  he  had  willfully  deceived  her,  but 
as  it  had  harmed  no  one,  he  did  not  see  why  she 
should  be  offended,  forgetting  that  evil  should 
never  be  done  that  good  may  come  of  it,  for  this 
had  never  been  one  of  his  mottoes. 

Abbie,  unconscious  of  his  thoughts,  and  never 
imagining  the  ride  as  anything  but  an  act  of  friendly 
courtesy,  intended  to  give  her  pleasure,  and  no  more 
than  he  would  have  done  for  any  other  girl  under 
the  same  circumstances,  remembered  how  freely  she 
had  given  expression  to  her  disappointment,  and 
felt,  she  could  not  have  told  why,  a  sense  of  embar 
rassment  in  his  presence.  In  her  utter  lack  of 
knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  she  did  not 
3 


34  ABB1E    SAUNDERS. 

attempt  to  conceal  her  embarrassment,  but  avoided 
him  whenever  she  could  without  being  rude. 

He  saw  that  she  strove  to  avoid  him,  and  his 
pride  was  stung,  though  he  had  no  thought  of 
changing  his  intentions  toward  her.  So  it  happened 
that  the  circumstance  which  would  otherwise  have 
served  to  make  them  more  social,  only  drove  them 
farther  apart. 

Rushford  was  obliged  to  see  the  position  he 
longed  to  hold  filled  by  an  old  friend  of  her  child 
hood,  whom  Abbie  had  long  known  and  loved, 
though,  he  being  but  two  years  her  senior,  they  had 
never  assumed  the  position  of  lovers. 

Charley  Reynolds  was  a  very  good  type  of  the 
country  boy.  He  was  strong  and  robust,  with 
laughing  eyes,  sunny  hair,  and  a  heart  full  of  love  for 
all  God's  creatures.  Abbie  could  hardly  remember 
the  first  pleasant  stroll  they  had  taken  together, 
when  he  used  to  help  her  over  all  the  rough  places, 
and  climb  the  bluffs  after  the  flowers  she  loved. 

They  had  grown  up  together,  he  according  to  her 
the  many  courtesies  which  a  loving  heart  prompts, 
and  she  accepting  them  with  childish  confidence. 
Little  suspecting  that  jealous  eyes  were  watch 
ing  them,  they  took  no  pains  to  conceal  their  regard. 
Rushford  saw  that  if  he  gained  the  hand  of  the 
girl,  he  must  supplant  young  Charley. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CHARLEY     REYNOLDS. 

HUS  matters  stood  for  two  years.  Stephen 
Rushford  still  lived  with  Mr.  Saunders 
through  the  busy  season,  and  at  an  uncle's 
in  the  neighborhood  during  the  rest  of  the  time.  He 
was  waiting  for  a  favorable  opportunity  to  press  his 
suit.  She,  all  unconscious  of  his  intentions,  was 
growing  more  and  more  conscious  that  she  loved 
Charley  Reynolds,  and  that  he  was  the  handsomest 
young  man  in  Greenvale. 

His  father,  a  kind  old  gentleman,  had  sometimes 
jokingly  called  her  his  daughter,  and  intimated 
rather  plainly  what  he  hoped  would  happen  some 
day,  if  Charley  knew  what  he  was  about.  She 
became  suspicious,  by  some  remarks  her  father  had 
made,  that  he  too  considered  the  match  made  and 
was  pleased  with  it. 

As  for  Charley,  he  had  long  looked  upon  Abbie 
as  belonging  to  himself  exclusively,  and  did  not 
dream  that  anyone  would  dispute  his  claims,  or  that 
she  could  refuse  him  when  he  should  ask  her  to 
become  his  bride. 

Thus  these  two  years  had  passed  away,  when 
Charley  Reynolds  and  William  Saunders  decided  to 

(35) 


36  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

go  West  with  Erastus  and  Anda  to  take  up  claims. 
Charley  thought  when  he  should  become  a  landed 
proprietor  he  need  hesitate  no  longer  to  claim  his 
bride.  He  did  not  dream  of  failure  ;  bright  pictures 
of  his  future  in  the  far  West,  in  a  home  of  his  own, 
made  beautiful  by  his  own  hand,  flitted  through  his 
brain.  Then,  with  Abbie  as  his  wife,  what  more 
could  he  ask  ? 

At  the  earnest  request  of  her  eldest  brother, 
Abbie,  with  a  younger  sister,  obtained  permission  to 
accompany  the  young  fortune  hunters  to  their  new 
homes  and  visit  some  old  friends  in  the  vicinity. 

Charley  heard  of  this  arrangement  with  delight. 
He  should  not  have  to  leave  his  sweetheart,  even  for 
a  short  time.  As  he  would  be  able  to  see  her  often, 
he  determined  to  know  his  fate  as  soon  as  his  home 
should  be  selected. 

The  journey  was  a  pleasant  one,  and  all  went 
merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  The  young  men  selected 
their  claims,  stuck  their  stakes,  and  began  the  work 
necessary  to  secure  them.  Young  Reynolds  felt 
that  all  he  desired  to  make  him  happy  was  to  hear 
the  words  from  Abbie's  lips  that  would  give  him 
the  right  to  claim  her  as  his  own. 

Until  now  he  had  not  feared  what  the  result  would 
be,  but,  as  the  time  approached,  he  felt  a  strange 
misgiving  at  his  heart,  a  sudden  trembling  for  which 
he  could  not  account.  Could  it  be  that  he  had  de 
ceived  himself,  that  she  did  not  love  him,  as  he  had 
hoped.  He  thought  of  the  past.  She  had  always 


CHARLEY    REYNOLDS.  37 

seemed  to  prefer  his  society,  and  had  never  seemed 
to  care  for  another.  He  felt  sure  Stephen  Rushford 
loved  her,  but  she  had  never  seemed  to  care  for  him. 
Feeling  that  he  was  wronging  her  by  his  doubts,  he 
resolved  to  conquer  them  and  know  his  fate  ere 
another  day  should  dawn.  Little  did  he  dream  of 
the  disappointment  that  awaited  him,  nor  of  the 
poison  that  was  even  then  working  against  him. 

Had  he  spoken  a  day  sooner,  the  answer  would 
have  been  favorable.  But  within  the  last  few  days 
Abbie  had  heard  reports  that  had  made  her  angry 
with  him,  and  when  he  called  she  met  him  so 
coldly  that  he  almost  lost  courage.  At  last  he 
spoke,  and  received  a  decided  refusal.  This  in  turn 
angered  him,  and,  believing  her  a  heartless  flirt,  he 
left  her.  The  subject  was  never  renewed,  and  thus 
two  more  hearts  that  had  been  faithful  for  years 
were  parted  by  a  silly  lovers'  quarrel. 

Abbie  soon  repented  of  her  foolish  anger,  but  had 
not  courage  to  confess  her  fault.  He  would  not 
renew  his  suit,  though  he  had  loved  her  long  and 
well,  and  thus,  drifting  farther  and  farther  apart, 
they  returned  to  their  homes  in  Illinois,  when  Abbie 
took  up  her  duties  again  with  a  sad  heart. 

On  the  first  evening  of  her  return  she  met  Mr. 
Rushford  at  the  supper  table.  He  gave  her  a 
quick,  searching  glance,  at  which  she  was  rather 
annoyed,  and  then  became  uncommonly  cheerful, 
saying  it  seemed  like  home  once  more.  He  asked 
a  great  many  questions  about  the  West,  and  said 
he  thought  of  going;  soon  to  see  for  himself. 


38  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"Plenty  of  land,  I  suppose?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  Erastus. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  plenty  of  land  now, 
but  settling  up  fast!" 

"Any  more  joining  you?"  asked  his  father. 

"Yes,  one-quarter  section.  Splendid  land!  I 
could  hardly  choose  between  that  and  mine." 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  continued  Mr.  Saunders, 
"that  if  you  are  all  going  I  might  as  well  sell  out 
and  go  along.  I  would  have  money,  and  with 
your  young  hands  to  work,  perhaps  we  could  make 
it  work  'round  all  right  in  the  end." 

"That  would  be  splendid!"  they  all  cried  in  a 
breath. 

"Yes,"  he  added,  "I  have  been  thinking  of  it  a 
good  deal  since  you  went  away.  We  can  drive  all 
our  stock  with  us.  I  hate  to  have  you  all  go  and 
leave  me.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  my  girl?" 
turning  to  Abbie.  "Don't  you  like  the  West?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  her  face 
crimsoning,  as  she  saw  all  eyes  turned  upon  her, 
for  she  knew  of  what  they  were  thinking. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said  mischievously.  "  I  sup 
pose  you'll  be  asking  me  to  let  you  go  whether  I 
do  or  not." 

Abbie  would  have  given  anything  to  have 
stopped  this  speech.  She  glanced  timidly  at  Steve 
(for  so  they  now  called  him).  She  would  not  have 
cared  so  much  if  he  had  not  been  there.  But  he 
was  occupied  with  his  supper  and  did  not  look  up. 


CHARLEY    REYNOLDS.  39 

She  tried  to  form  words  to  answer  him  carelessly, 
but  she  could  not  speak,  and,  rising,  left  the  table 
and  the  room. 

"Whew!"  said  her  father,  surprised  at  her  man 
ner,  at  the  same  time  looking  at  Erastus.  "  What 
does  it  mean?  She  didn't  seem  to  relish  the  joke." 

Raz  gave  him  a  warning  look,  and  he  subsided 
into  silence.  Steve  soon  rose  and  left  the  room. 
Then  Raz  told  his  father  that  there  was  something 
wrong  between  Abbie  and  Charley,  and  as  it  pained 
her  to  speak  of  it,  they  had  better  not  say  anything 
about  it. 

"Just  as  you  think,"  said  Mr.  Saunders,  "but  I 
hope  it  is  nothing  but  a  lovers' »quarrel  that  will 
soon  blow  over.  Charley  is  a  splendid  fellow,  and 
I  counted  on  his  going  West  with  us." 

None  of  them  paid  any  attention  to  Steve,  who 
did  not  return  to  the  house  until  after  the  chores 
were  done.  He  was  very  quiet  and  soon  went  to 
his  room.  The  next  day  Mr.  Saunders  went  away 
and  returned  at  night  with  the  intelligence  that  he 
had  found  a  purchaser  for  Olney  farm,  and  they 
might  commence  active  preparations  for  the  jour 
ney. 

It  was  now  the  beginning  of  August,  and  as  they 
wished  to  start  by  the  middle  of  October,  there 
was  no  time  to  be  lost.  There  was,  indeed,  plenty 
of  work  to  be  done.  The  grain,  which  now  dotted 
the  fields  in  yellow  shocks,  must  be  gathered  in, 
threshed,  and  taken  to  market.  The  other  produce 


4O  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

had  never  seemed  so  abundant  as  now,  when  it 
must  all  be  disposed  of  in  so  short  a  time. 

Indoors  the  same  hurry  and  bustle  prevailed. 
Mr:  Saunders,  who,  the  neighbors  said,  could  keep 
an  army  at  work,  completely  outdid  himself,  and 
there  was  no  end  to  the  good  things  to  be  prepared 
for  them  to  eat.  Never  did  men  eat  so  before,  and 
breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  followed  one  another 
in  quick  succession. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Abbie's  ready  fingers,  what 
would  have  become  of  the  little  Saunderses,  who 
must  all  be  provided  with  new  clothing? 

Roxy,  who  was  four  years  younger  than  Abbie, 
was  wide-awake  with  anticipation,  and  flew  from 
one  thing  to  another  with  startling  rapidity,  now 
assisting  the  kitchen  maid  to  wash  that  great  pile 
of  dishes,  but  dropping  the  towel  before  it  was  half 
done,  to  see  if  Abbie  was  going  to  put  a  ruffle  on  her 
dress.  She  liked  them  so  much.  To  her  this  was 
a  small  request,  but  to  Abbie's  more  experienced 
mind  it  suggested  many  additional  stitches.  So 
she  looked  at  her  mischievously,  saying  she  might 
if  Roxy  would  hem  them.  But  Roxy  said  hur 
riedly: — 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't  time;  besides,  I  hate  hem 
ming!"  and  ran  away  to  see  how  the  men  were  get 
ting  along  in  the  field. 

Abbie  smiled  and  said:  "I  thought  that  would 
settle  it.  Roxy  hates  sewing." 

"  No  more  than  I  did  when  I  was  a  girl,"  said 


CHARLEY    REYNOLDS.  4! 

her  mother.  "I  would  rather  do  any  amount  of 
housework  than  make  my  own  clothes." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  feel  so.  I  would 
rather  sew  than  do  anything  else." 

"  It  is  well  you  like  it.  There  is  surely  enough 
to  do." 

"Yes,"  said  Abbie,  thoughtfully,  "there  is  cer 
tainly  enough  to  do.  Roxy  must  have  dress,  cloak, 
and  hat.  Then  there  is  Joe,  Eddie,  and  Gussie 
must  have  full  suits,  to  say  nothing  of  the  baby 
or  ourselves.  But  don't  worry,  mother,"  she  added 
cheerfully,  "  my  task  is  not  half  as  difficult  as  yours." 

Her  mother  watched  the  busy  fingers  with  won 
der  and  admiration.  She  had  always  tried  to  per 
form  her  several  duties,  but  sewing  had  been  dis 
tasteful  to  her.  As  her  eldest  daughter  had  been 
like  herself,  she  was  pleased  to  see  this  daughter 
take  to  the  disagreeable  work  with  so  much  pleas 
ure.  She  had  long  ago  begun  to  trust  the  family 
sewing  to  her.  She  rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and 
left  the  room  to  attend  to  some  household  duties, 
and  Abbie  was  left  alone. 

Her  fingers  were  busy,  and  so  were  her  thoughts 
with  the  ever-recurring  subject  of  her  quarrel  with 
Charley.  She  had  long  since  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  there  was  some  mistake  in  the  reports,  and 
that,  but  for  her  silly  anger,  the  tangled  web  might 
have  been  straightened.  Never  before  had  his  love 
seemed  so  dear  to  her  as  now,  when  it  was  beyond 
her  reach. 


42  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

She  thought  of  the  many  happy  hours  they  had 
spent  together,  and  felt  that  he  was  justly  angry 
with  her.  She  ought  not  to  have  refused  him  in 
that  haughty  manner  without  giving  some  reason 
for  her  conduct;  but  she  had  done  so,  and  it  was 
now  too  late.  She  could  not  break  over  the  false 
barrier  custom  had  raised  forbidding  woman  to 
plead  her  own  cause  in  such  matters. 

Had  she  been  able  to  lift  the  veil  of  the  future, 
she  might  yet  have  saved  herself  ere  it  was  indeed 
too  late.  She  well  knew  that  one  sentence  from 
her  lips  would  bring  him  again  to  her  side,  but  the 
false  impression  she  had  thus  early  imbibed  sealed 
her  lips,  and  that  sentence  was  never  spoken.  Even 
then  the  shadow  of  coming  sorrow  settled  upon 
her  soul.  They  were  weary,  weary  days  that  she 
passed  at  her  work. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   FAMILY   MOVE   WEST. 

degrees   the  pile  of  work  decreased,  the 
grain  was  all  disposed  of,  the  cattle  were 
all  collected  within  the  ten-acre  lot,  three 
huge  wagons  were  drawn  up  near  the  house 
and  covered  with  canvas,  and  their  household  goods 

*  o 

were  stowed  away.  Many  valued  articles  of  furni 
ture  must  be  left  behind  on  account  of  room.  One 
in  particular,  a  table  made  and  presented  to  Mrs. 
Saunders  by  her  brother,  who  had  moved  to  Cali 
fornia  caused  a  great  deal  of  disappointment.  In 
vain  did  she  plan  and  plead;  it  would  not  go  in. 

Indeed  it  is  doubtful  if  all  the  little  Saunderses 
could  have  been  crowded  into  the  space  left  for 
them;  this,  however,  was  not  necessary.  Joe  de 
clared  he  was  not  going  to  be  stowed  away  with 
the  women — not  he.  He  was  going  to  help  drive 
the  cattle,  like  Steve  and  Raz,  so  they  needn't 
worry  about  him.  And  Roxy  had  begged  the 
privilege  of  riding  Fan,  her  favorite,  and  helping 
drive  the  cows.  She  had  seen  a  girl  do  it  when 
some  emigrants  went  by,  and  she  thought  it  was 
fun. 

They  were  at  last  ready  to  start ;  the  good-byes 
had  all  been  spoken.  As  they  passed  out  into  the 

(43) 


44  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

road,  the  boys  gave  one  loud  whoop,  then  three 
cheers  for  Minnesota,  and  they  were  on  the  road. 
As  they  passed  out  of  the  lane  to  the  prairie,  Roxy 
and  Joe  rendered  such  efficient  aid  in  driving  the 
cattle  that  no  one  was  sorry  they  had  had  their 
own  way.  They  received  so  much  praise  that  they 
were  highly  elated,  and  did  not  stop  to  think  that 
they  were  looking  their  last  on  dear,  familiar  scenes. 
Not  so  Mrs.  Saunders  and  Abbie.  They  realized 
but  too  well  the  sadness  of  the  parting.  It  was  not 
until  the  shades  of  evening  warned  them  that  camp 
ing-time  was  near  that  their  faces  lost  their  sad 
looks.  Then  there  was  enough  to  do  besides  re 
pine.  The  little  ones  were  tired  and  sleepy,  and 
wanted  to  go  home.  They  were  very  much  sur 
prised  when  told  that  "camping  out"  meant  to 
sleep  on  the  ground  in  a  tent. 

"What  is  a  tent?"  said  little  Gussie. 

"  It  is  a  house  made  of  cloth,"  said  Abbie.  "  Papa 
and  the  boys  will  put  it  up  soon.  If  you  won't  cry, 
you  can  see  them." 

Gussie  wiped  his  eyes  and  tried  to  look  brave. 
As  the  work  of  putting  up  the  tent  soon  commenced, 
the  homesick  feeling  was  forgotten  in  the  nov 
elty  and  excitement  of  the  scene.  All  wrere  tired 
and  hungry,  and  when  Eddie  remarked,  at  the  table 
of  boards,  that  the  supper  was  "  real  good,"  no  one 
felt  like  disputing  his  word.  This  was  not  the  only 
hearty  meal  eaten  on  that  trip.  The  days  were 
spent  in  traveling  and  admiring  the  scenery.  At 


THE    FAMILY    MOVE   WEST.  45 

night  they  would  stop  in  some  wild,  romantic  spot, 
and  the  tired  animals  were  allowed  to  graze,  or  lie 
down  to  rest,  while  the  children  sprang  from  the 
wagon,  glad  to  use  their  little  feet  once  more.  The 
camp  fire  was  built,  the  supper  got,  the  tents  pitched, 
and  the  beds  prepared.  There  seemed  no  time  to 
think  of  home.  To  judge  from  the  happy  faces, 
there  was  no  inclination,  yet  Abbie  often  thought 
how  happy  she  might  have  been  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her  foolish  pride  and  anger. 

When  the  quiet  Sabbath  had  come,  everything 
seemed  to  be  at  rest,  for  Mr.  Saunders  would  not 
travel  on  that  day.  The  cattle  were  still  allowed 
their  liberty,  and  the  tents  were  not  moved.  In 
front  of  one  sat  the  father  and  mother,  while  near 
them  the  little  ones  were  gathered,  amusing  them 
selves  in  one  of  the  thousand  ways  of  little  children. 

Abbie  had  grown  tired  of  reading,  and  when  Mr. 
Rushford  proposed  a  stroll,  she  was  glad  to  go. 
Their  path  led  up  a  quiet  stream  for  a  short  dis 
tance,  and  then,  climbing  a  steep  declivity,  they 
stood  on  the  point  of  a  high  bluff. 

Beneath  them  lay  the  camp,  in  quiet  serenity; 
beyond  it  the  long  bridge  over  which  they  had 
crossed;  still  farther  on  rose  the  hills,  studded  with 
trees,  and  over  all  the  sun  sinking  in  the  far  west. 
It  was  a  splendid  picture,  well  calculated  to  inspire 
the  tenderest  feelings  of  the  heart.  They  uncon 
sciously  yielded  to  its  influence,  and,  gazing  far  out 
over  the  beautiful  landscape,  thoughts  of  the  far-off 


46  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

future  filled  their  minds.  Abbie  wondered  what 
good  it  had  in  store  for  her. 

As  they  gazed,  Rushford  talked  to  her,  in  low, 
gentle  tones,  first  of  the  scenery,  and  then  of  his 
childhood's  home.  He  gave  a  glowing  description 
of  his  home  in  Wisconsin.  He  spoke  of  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  wished  Abbie  could  know  them. 
And  all  this  in  such  a  quiet,  easy  way  that  Abbie 
was  both  surprised  and  pleased.  She  wondered 
that  she  could  have  thought  him  uninteresting, 
and  when  they  returned  to  the  camp,  she  no  longer 
shunned  him.  He  seemed  so  changed,  so  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  the  comfort  of  those  around  him. 
She  wondered  she  had  not  noticed  it  before,  and 
felt  that  she  had  been  unjust  to  him. 

The  next  day  they  started  again  on  their  jour 
ney,  refreshed  by  their  Sabbath's  rest.  Ere  another 
rolled  around,  they  were  at  home. 

"Is  this  home?"  said  little  six-year-old  Eddie. 
"  I  don't  see  no  house.  Shall  we  live  in  the  cloth 
house  for  ever'n  ever?  " 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Abbie,  by  whose  side  he  sat. 
"There  is  a  house  in  that  clump  of  trees  yonder. 
It  is  built  of  logs,  and  has  only  one  room." 

"Then  where'll  we  sleep?  Oh,  there  it  is!  lean 
seethe  top  now.  Oh,  ain't  it  funny!"  he  added  as 
they  came  nearer. 

"It  don't  look  a  bit  like  our  house,"  said  Gussie. 

The  children  all  looked  eager.,  and  as  they  drew 
up  to  the  door,  Gussie  exclaimed,  "Why,  mother, 
it's  just  logs  of  wood  piled  up  like  our  cob  houses!" 


THE    FAMILY   MOVE   WEST.  47 

"That's  so,"  said  Eddie,  "only  it  ain't  got  any 
fence  round  it.  We  always  make  one." 

"  Yes,  and  we'll  soon  make  one  too,"  said  Raz, 
smiling.  "Can  you  tell  us  how?" 

"Oh,  yes!  It  is  just  as  easy  as  can  be,  but  I 
couldn't  lift  the  logs,"  he  added,  dropping  his  look 
of  importance. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  his  brother,  laughing,  "we  will 
make  some  rails  out  of  the  logs!  But  now  for  sup 
per  in  our  new  home.  How  do  you  like  it?"  turn 
ing  to  Roxy,  who  stood  looking  around  with  a  dis 
satisfied  air. 

"I  don't  like  it  a  bit,  that's  all!  It  isn't  a  bit 
nice,  and  I  wish  we  were  at  home." 

"So  we  are,  little  sister,  and  we  will  soon  make 
it  look  like  home,  too.  Come,  let  us  work  with  a 
will." 

He  caught  up  an  ax  and  went  to  work  with  such 
vigor  that  he  soon  had  a  bright  fire  in  the  stove 
which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room. 

As  Abbie  had  said,  the  house  had  but  one  room, 
but  it  had  the  advantage  of  being  very  large.  A 
homemade  basswood  table  stood  against  the  wall. 
The  provisions  were  brought  in,  and  while  mother 
prepared  supper,  the  beds  were  unpacked,  and  two 
bedsteads  filled  two  respective  corners,  while  the 
rest  of  the  bedding  was  carried  into  the  chamber,  to 
be  used  by  the  boys. 

By  the  time  these  arrangements  were  completed, 
supper  was  ready.  They  all  ate  with  great  relish. 


48  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

The  evening  that  followed  was  a  busy  and  pleasant 
one.     And  so  life  commenced  at  their  new  home. 

In  the  morning  all  was  bustle  and  confusion. 
There  was  so  much  to  be  done.  Another  room 
must  be  built  for  a  cook  room;  a  barn  must  be 
built  for  the  horses,  and  more  hay  cut  for  the  cat 
tle.  As  it  was  now  the  middle  of  October,  there 
was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

Mr.  Saunders  could  have  commanded  a  larger 
army  than  ever  now.  He  must,  however,  be  con 
tent  with  the  force  then  in  command,  which  con 
sisted  of  Raz  and  Will  Saunders,  Steven  Rushford, 
Mr.  Elton,  who,  with  his  young  wife,  had  come 
with  them,  and  was  considered  one  of  the  family, 
and  little  Joe,  who  was  eleven  years  old,  and  who 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  traveling,  camping 
out,  and  driving  cattle  was  hard  work,  and  that  he 
was  "the  worst  bossed  of  all,"  as  he  had  to  run  on 
errands  for  all  hands. 

All  were  soon  at  work.  By  the  time  the  kitchen 
was  built,  the  barn  and  sheds  prepared,  and  the 
hay  cut,  the  weather,  which  had  been  very  mild, 
began  to  change.  The  nights  were  cold,  with 
heavy  frost.  By  the  2Oth  of  November,  dark  clouds 
overspread  the  sky,  and  all  saw  that  an  early 
snowstorm  threatened  them,  while  ten  acres  of 
turnips  which  had  been  sown  on  the  new  breaking, 
were  still  out.  Two  teams  and  four  men  were 
needed  to  haul  in  the  hay.  That  left  one  team  and 
two  boys  for  turnips.  The  boys  were  both  needed 


THE    FAMILY    MOVE   WEST.  49 

to  pull.  Who  would  drive  the  team?  It  was  here 
Roxy's  horsemanship  came  in  play  again.  She  im 
mediately  volunteered  to  drive  the  team,  and  was 
gladly  accepted.  To  work  they  went  with  a  will. 
By  the  time  dinner  was  ready,  a  large  pile  of  yel 
low  turnips  lay  by  the  barn. 

Abbie  knew  they  must  all  be  topped  and  put 
under  cover  before  the  storm,  or  they  would  be 
frozen.  It  did  not  look  as  if  this  could  be  accom 
plished,  but  she  could  try,  and,  gaining  her  mother's 
consent,  she  called  Annie  and  Joe  and  set  to  work. 
The  weather  was  disagreeable,  with  raw  winds  and 
scarcely  any  sun.  Though  the  storm  held  off  for 
several  days,  the  work  was  not  completed  when, 
one  morning,  Abbie  found  herself  unable  to  rise. 
The  exposure  had  been  too  much  for  her  health, 
which  was  never  good,  and  she  was  for  many  days 
confined  to  her  bed.  She  had  the  satisfaction,  how 
ever,  of  knowing  that,  with  the  assistance  she  had 
given,  the  turnips  would  be  saved.  She  bore  her 
illness  with  great  patience,  and,  with  her  mother's 
tender  nursing,  was  soon  convalescent. 

The  storm  had  come.  The  men  were  gathered 
around  the  cheerful  fire.  The  boys,  full  of  fun  and 
frolic,  felt  the  confinement,  and  were  rather  noisy. 
Abbie,  still  very  weak,  often,  growing  weary  of  the 
noise,  would  go  into  the  kitchen  and  sit  by  the 
large  stove,  listlessly  watching  her  mother  as  she 
passed  busily  to  and  fro,  and  longing  for  the  return 
of  strength  that  she  might  assist  her.  Steve  would 
4 


50  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

frequently  leave  his  companions,  and,  sitting  by  her 
side,  strive  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  the  hours 
by  reading  to  her  or  conversing,  in  low,  gentle 
tones.  By  the  time  she  had  become  strong  and 
able  to  perform  her  usual  duties,  she  had  become 
very  much  attached  to  him. 

Mrs.  Saunders,  who  had  known  and  loved  his 
mother  years  before,  was  not  displeased  that  they 
should  become  friends,  and  placed  no  obstacle  in 
their  path.  When,  a  few  weeks  later,  he  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife,  he  met  with  few  objections,  for, 
after  talking  with  Abbie,  even  Mr.  Saunders  forbore 
to  check  their  happiness  by  his  doubts. 

True,  he  tried  to  persuade  them  to  wait  at  least  a 
year,  but,  finding  them  unwilling  to  listen,  he  at  last 
gave  his  consent,  and  an  early  day  was  set  for  the 
wedding.  He  did  not  like  the  turn  affairs  had 
taken.  He  had  never  thought  of  Rushford  as  a 
son-in-law;  besides,  he  was  not  pleased  with  the 
course  he  had  taken  since  coming  West.  When 
he  had  proposed  coming  with  them  to  this  new 
country,  he  had  talked  of  taking  land.  But,  though 
there  were  several  claims  vacant  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  he  had  taken  no  pains  to  secure  one.  He 
seemed  content  with  the  small  wages  Mr.  Saunders 
could  give  him,  without  a  seeming  thought  of  do 
ing  more,  or  providing  for  the  future. 

Mr.  Saunders  was  better  acquainted  with  him 
than  the  rest  of  the  family  were.  He  knew  him  to 
have  a  cruel,  relentless  disposition,  and  he  trembled 


THE    FAMILY    MOVE   WEST.  51 

at  the  thought  of  placing  his  daughter's  happiness 
in  his  hands.  Although  he  seemed  honest  and  in 
dustrious,  he  had  no  settled  principles,  and  Mr. 
Saunders  knew  it,  and  feared  for  the  consequences 
of  this  step.  He  felt  displeased  with  his  daughter 
for  loving  such  a  man,  and  displeased  with  himself 
for  consenting  to  the  match.  More  than  once  he 
nearly  decided  to  break  it  up.  Had  he  known  the 
true  state  of  Abbie's  mind,  he  would  have  done  so, 
but  she  had  not  confided  in  him,  or  anyone,  and, 
fearing  he  might  make  matters  worse,  he  kept  his 
own  counsel.  When,  a  few  days  before  the  wed 
ding,  he  received  an  important  business  call  which 
would  detain  him  from  home  for  two  or  more 
weeks,  he  was  almost  glad  to  go. 

The  trip  must  be  made  with  his  team,  and,  the 
day  before  starting,  while  at  the  breakfast  table, 
Abbie  heard  him  express  a  wish  for  a  pair  of  home- 
knit  wool  gloves  to  drive  in.  Immediately  after 
breakfast  her  mother  was  surprised  to  see  Abbie 
winding  yarn,  instead  of  working  at  her  trousseau. 

"Why,  what  are  you  doing?"  she  asked  in  sur 
prise. 

"Father  wants  a  pair  of  gloves,"  Abbie  answered 
quietly. 

"  But  you  cannot  spare  the  time  from  your  own 
work  now,  my  child.  Besides,  you  cannot  finish 
them  in  time." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can !  Don't  you  remember,  I  made 
me  a  pair  of  mittens  in  a  day  last  winter?  " 


52  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"  But  there  is  more  work  in  a  pair  of  gloves,  and 
these  must  be  larger,"  said  her  mother,  looking 
anxiously  at  the  large  pile  of  sewing  on  the  table, 
and  thinking  that  Abbie's  hands  must  do  it  all. 

"  Oh,  do  not  object,  dear  mother !  When  father 
comes  back,  I  shall  be  married,  you  know,  and  not 
free  to  do  his  bidding.  He  shall  have  his  gloves  if 
I  work  all  night  and  wear  my  old  cloak  besides. 
But  I  shall  finish  them  in  time,  you  will  see." 

Her  mother  said  no  more,  but  returned  to  her 
work.  Many  a  time  she  had  denied  herself  some 
pleasure,  and  worked  until  the  "wee  small  hours" 
to  accomplish  this  same  weary  task,  without  a 
thought  that  she  had  done  anything  worthy  of 
praise,  but  that  Abbie  should  of  her  own  free  will 
do  so  now  seemed  to  her  a  fresh  token  of  her  lov 
ing  heart.  But  Abbie  did  not  think  of  this.  Her 
heart  had  been  filled  with  compunction  because  she 
had  not  taken  her  father's  advice,  especially  as  he 
had  not  said  a  word  against  her  lover,  but  had  only 
asked  for  a  delay. 

She  saw  that  she  had  been  hasty  and  selfish,  and 
feared  he  would  doubt  her  love  for  him.  She 
longed  for  some  way  to  show  him  that  she  still 
loved  him,  and  when  he  expressed  this  wish,  she 
determined  it  should  be  gratified. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  enough  to  do.  There  was 
her  dress,  not  finished  (Abbie  never  thought  of 
wearing  one  she  had  not  made  with  her  own  hands), 
her  cloak  to  be  trimmed  and  stitched,  besides  the 


THE    FAMILY    MOVE    WEST.  53 

"hundred  and  one"  other  things  to  be  done.  But 
she  put  them  resolutely  away,  and,  taking  her 
needles,  sat  down  to  her  self-imposed  task.  All 
day  long  she  plied  her  needles.  When  the  short 
winter  day  was  done,  and  the  men  were  gathered 
for  their  evening  meal,  she  had  only  commenced 
the  thumb  of  the  second  glove. 

Abbie's  heart  almost  failed  her.  The  task  had 
been  greater  than  she  had  anticipated.  The  yarn  was 
fine,  which  made  a  greater  number  of  stitches  nec 
essary.  Her  hands  ached.  Her  fingers  had  been 
worn  to  the  quick,  and  every  stitch  now  taken  gave 
her  fresh  pain.  But  she  never  paused,  until,  as  the 
clock  struck  ten,  the  last  stitch  was  taken. 

Never  while  her  life  lasts  will  she  forget  that 
evening.  The  pain  made  her  quiet  and  thoughtful. 
Each  stitch  caused  a  fresh  pang  of  pain,  yet  how 
small  a  space  it  filled  in  the  glove !  She  wondered 
if  this  piece  of  work  was  a  shadow  of  her  life.  She 
had  begun  for  pleasure;  she  had  continued  for 
duty;  she  had  ended  in  pain.  Would  it  be  so  with 
her  life?  The  thought  made  her  shudder.  But 
why  should  such  thoughts  come  to  her  at  this  time? 
No,  she  would  not  believe  it.  She  had  refused  a 
request  of  her  father's,  and  had  done  this  to  show 
that  it  was  not  for  lack  of  love  for  him,  and  to  pun 
ish  herself  for  this  first  disobedience. 

Alas,  she  knew  not  how  small  a  portion  of  her 
punishment  was  found  in  this  act !  Many  a  bitter 
tear  must  be  shed,  many  a  pain  must  be  endured, 
ere  her  punishment  was  complete. 


54  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

Before  she  was  awake  in  the  morning,  her  father 
was  gone,  and  she  resumed  her  work  with  greater 
pleasure  than  she  would  have  felt  had  he  gone 
without  his  gloves. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    WEDDING. 

'HE  wedding  day  arrived  at  last,  clear  and 
beautiful.  The  last  stitch  had  been  taken. 
Abbie,  robed  in  her  bridal  attire,  stood  by 
her  mother's  side,  receiving  her  blessing  and  ad 
vice.  But  she  was  not  happy,  she  knew  not  why. 
Since  that  night  when  the  thought  that  she  was 
weaving  her  own  destiny  came  to  her,  she  had  had 
strange  forebodings  of  evil.  It  seemed  so  lonely 
without  her  father.  She  had  never  felt  so  before 
in  his  absence,  but  now  she  seemed  to  need  him  to 
protect  her  from  some  unknown  danger. 

There  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  a  sudden 
change  in  her  lover.  He  seemed  less  gentle  and 
loving,  and  once,  when  he  stood  watching  her,  she 
looked  up  suddenly  and  saw,  or  fancied  she  saw,  a 
strange  look  in  his  face — a  something  that  struck 
a  chill  to  her  heart!  It  was  only  for  a  moment, 
then  he  had  spoken  some  light  words  and  walked 
away. 

But  that  look  had  haunted  her  ever  since.  It 
brought  back  all  her  old  distrust,  long  since  for 
gotten.  Just  now  all  seemed  to  be  dark  ahead. 
She  wondered  if  all  girls  felt  as  she  did.  Yes, 

(55) 


56  ABBIF.    SAUNDERS. 

probably  they  did.  She  would  not  trouble  her 
mother  with  her  fears.  She  was  only  nervous. 

They  stood  thus,  silent  and  still,  when  the  sleigh 
was  announced.  As  her  mother  released  her  hand 
she  said,  "Trust  in  God,  my  child." 

How  these  simple  words  startled  her!  She 
seemed  to  hear  them  for  the  first  time.  Had  she 
trusted  in  God  to  guide  her  in  the  step  she  was 
about  to  take?  Alas!  now  that  it  was  too  late 
she  knew  she  had  not.  In  a  moment  the  last  five 
months  of  her  life  seemed  spread  like  a  scroll  be 
fore  her.  She  seemed  to  have  lived  in  a  daze  since 
her  quarrel  with  Charley,  and  to  have  been  led  on 
by  some  cruel  power  the  source  of  which  she 
could  not  guess.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
even  to  pray.  She  had  said  her  prayers,  but  had 
she  really  prayed?  The  thought  made  her  tremble. 
She  longed  to  stop  and  think,  but  it  was  too  late. 
The  gay  crowd  were  leading  her  away,  with  smil 
ing  faces. 

As  they  handed  her  into  the  sleigh,  she  met  the 
eyes  of  her  lover.  They  were  filled  with  such  a 
soft,  tender  light  as  he  leaned  over  her  to  adjust 
the  robes,  that  her  fear  all  vanished  like  dew.  As 
they  skimmed  lightly  over  the  crisp  snow,  and 
while  the  horses'  feet  kept  time  to  the  merry  jingle 
of  the  bells,  a  sweet  peace  and  trust  stole  over  her, 
and  she  was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many 
days. 

The  five  miles'  drive  was  soon  accomplished,  and 


THE    WEDDING.  57 

the  bridal  party  was  ushered  into  the  cozy  parlor 
of  the  pastor,  whose  family  were  all  collected  to 
witness  the  ceremony. 

They  took  their  places,  while  the  pastor  rever 
ently  knelt  and  offered  up  a  fervent  prayer  for  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  the  pair  who  were  about  to 
be  united  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock.  Then  he 
arose  and  began  slowly  to  repeat  the  words  which 
were  to  bind  them  together. 

Abbie  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  until,  in  an 
swer  to  the  words,  "  Do  you  solemnly  swear  to 
take  this  woman  for  your  lawful  wedded  wife,  to 
love,  cherish,  and  protect  her,  as  long  as  you  both 
shall  live? "  Rushford  pronounced  the  words, "  I  do." 
Something  in  the  tone  startled  her,  so  that  she 
scarcely  heard  the  rest  of  the  service.  What  could 
it  mean?  Why  should  she  be  so  startled?  What 
was  there  in  his  tone  and  manner  thdt  had  seemed 
to  thrill  every  nerve  with  terror,  and  strike  a  chill, 
as  of  death,  to  her  heart? 

She  was  so  preoccupied  as  to  forget  where  she 
was,  until  the  pastor's  playful  salute  to  the  bride 
roused  her  to  a  sense  of  her  position.  Her  friends 
kindly  greeted  her,  and  many  jokes  went  round. 

After  a  pleasant  half  hour,  they  set  out  for  home, 
where  they  arrived  at  dark,  and  found  a  plentiful 
meal  awaiting  them,  to  which  they  did  ample  jus 
tice. 

Several  friends  had  joined  the  family,  and,  amid 
their  merry  jokes,  the  time  passed  pleasantly.  Late 


58  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

in  the  evening  Abbie  found  herself  alone  with  her 
husband,  standing  in  the  large  kitchen.  They 
could  hear  the  merry  voices  and  peals  of  laughter 
in  the  room  where  the  guests,  who  were  in  high 
glee,  were  assembled.  All  at  once  there  was  a 
hush.  The  outer  door  opened,  and  the  clear  voice 
of  Will  was  heard  saying: — 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Weir,  come  in,  come  in. 
You  are  late." 

What  Mr.  Weir  said  in  answer,  Abbie  did  not 
hear,  for  she  had  been  again  startled  by  the  appear 
ance  of  her  husband.  At  the  first  sound  of  that 
name  he  had  started  and  turned  pale.  A  bright 
glitter  came  into  his  eyes,  as  he  stood  staring 
wildly  toward  the  door  that  led  to  the  room  from 
which  the  sounds  came.  At  the  sound  of  Weir's 
voice,  he  sprang  forward  and  locked  the  door,  then 
turned  a  look  of  wild  triumph  at  his  frightened 
wife. 

Hearing  the  voice  again,  he  began  pacing  the 
floor  excitedly,  muttering  between  his  set  teeth , 
"What  fiend  sent  him  here,  to-night  of  all  nights?" 

So  wild  and  fierce  was  his  look  and  manner  that 
Abbie  stood  spellbound.  Her  blood  seemed  frozen 
in  her  veins,  and  she  could  neither  move  nor  speak. 
She  heard  someone  try  the  door.  Then  her  brother 
called  playfully  to  them  not  to  eat  too  much,  as  it 
was  a  bad  notion  for  children — going  to  the  cup 
board  in  the  evening.  Then  a  laugh  followed. 

Abbie  heard  all  this,  vaguely,  as  she  watched  the 


THE   WEDDING.  59 

excited  movements  of  her  husband.  She  seemed 
to  live  an  age  in  those  few  minutes.  Suddenly  her 
mother's  words  came  to  her  mind,  "  Trust  in  God, 
my  child."  Her  heart  rose  to  God  in  prayer,  and 
a  sweet  peace  came  to  her.  Her  whole  being 
seemed  filled  with  tender  love  for  her  husband,  and 
she  walked  slowly  toward  him.  He  had  paused  in 
his  rapid  walk,  and,  as  she  approached  him,  looked 
at  her  in  a  bewildered  way.  She  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  his  arm.  At  that  moment  Will  shook  the 
door  vigorously,  saying,  "Come,  open  the  door,  or 
there'll  be  no  pie  for  breakfast." 

Steve  started  to  obey,  but,  finding  it  locked,  he 
turned  to  his  wife  with  a  strange,  bewildered  look, 
asking, "Why  is  it  locked?" 

"Oh,  just  for  a  joke!  Open  it,"  she  answered,  so 
calmly  that  she  wondered  at  herself. 

He  obeyed,  and  they  entered  the  room  amid  the 
laughter  of  the  guests.  Abbie  watched  her  hus 
band  nervously,  as  Mr.  Weir  stepped  gallantly  for 
ward,  and  grasped  first  her  hand,  and  then  that  of 
her  husband.  He  took  the  proffered  hand  with  no 
visible  signs  of  emotion,  greatly  to  the  surprise  of 
Abbie,  who  scarcely  took  her  eyes  from  his  face  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  But  nothing  more  hap 
pened  to  arouse  her  fears,  though  the  impression, 
which  in  that  dreadful  moment  had  come  home  to 
her  heart,  that  her  husband  was  insane,  did  not 
leave  her.  This  impression  was  strengthened  by 
another  strange  occurrence  which  happened  the 
next  day. 


6O  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

As  she  stood  alone  in  the  shade  near  the  house, . 
he  had  approached  her,  with  that  strange  glitter  in 
his  eyes,  and  asked  her  to  take  a  walk.  Fearing  to 
cross  him,  she  complied,  and  he  led  her  a  wild 
chase  through  the  grove,  then  across  a  clearing  into 
the  woods,  through  which  he  tramped,  with  no 
seeming  object,  keeping  her  close  to  his  side,  and 
seeming  angry  and  excited  when  she  failed  to  keep 
pace  with  him. 

After  performing  a  large  circle,  they  neared  the 
house.  All  at  once  he  seemed  conscious  of  his 
whereabouts,  looked  bewildered,  and,  turning  to  her, 
asked  what  had  happened.  She  answered  lightly 
that  they  had  been  taking  a  walk.  He  gazed  into 
ner  eyes  for  a  moment,  while  his  filled  with  an  ex 
ultant  light,  and  then  left  her  and  rejoined  the  men, 
while  she,  with  a  beating  heart,  entered  the  house. 

When  he  came  in  in  the  evening,  he  did  not  ap 
pear  to  remember  their  strange  walk.  He  was  as 
gentle  and  thoughtful  as  usual  of  her  comfort,  as 
sisted  her  with  the  evening's  work,  and,  to  all  ap 
pearances,  was  as  sane  as  anyone.  But  this  was 
not  to  last.  Two  days  did  not  pass  away  before 
she  was  awakened  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  with  the  request  to  get  up  quick,  and  go  with 
him. 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go?"  she  asked,  in  sur 
prise. 

"  Over  there,"  he  answered.    "  Come,  make  haste." 
"Oh,  no!  "she  said  soothingly,  for  he  trembled 


THE    WEDDING.  6l 

violently  and  seemed  greatly  agitated.  "  It  is  dark, 
and  very  cold.  We  do  not  want  to  go  until  day- 
light." 

"Yes,  yes.  Come  now,"  pulling  her  by  the  arm. 
"Make  haste,  or  it  will  be  too  late." 

He  was  perfectly  wild  with  excitement.  She 
arose  mechanically,  to  obey  his  request.  She  tried 
to  speak,  but  her  voice  failed  her.  Her  courage  had 
all  forsaken  her,  and  she  dared  not  disobey.  She 
wondered  what  he  could  want.  Where  could  he 
wish  her  to  go  at  this  time  of  night?  What  was 
he  going  to  do  with  her?  Perhaps  lead  her  to 
some  lonely  spot,  and — oh,  horrors !  what  a  thought ! 

She  could  not,  would  not  go.     Yet,  as  she  felt  his 

tt 
eyes  fixed  upon  her,  she  dared  not  disobey. 

Suddenly,  like  an  inspiration,  came  her  mother's 
words,  "Trust  in  God,  my  child."  She  closed  her 
eyes,  and  raised  her  heart  to  God  in  prayer  for 
guidance.  It  was  indeed  a  trying  moment.  But 
God,  who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry,  did  not 
forsake  her  now.  All  fear  left  her  heart.  Her 
mind  became  clear,  and  she  saw  how  absurd  was 
the  request,  and  what  a  wild  act  her  obedience 
would  be.  He  still  watched  her  with  his  baleful 
eyes,  but  she  did  not  quail. 

"Come,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 

"  No,  I  cannot  go."  Her  tone  was  calm  and  firm. 
"  I  dare  not  go." 

"  You  do  not  love  me,  then  ?  You  will  not  obey 
me?" 


62  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"Steven,"  she  said  firmly,  "  I  will  do  anything  in 
reason,  but  this  I  will  not  do." 

"Then  I  leave  you  forever,"  he  cried,  rising  and 
quietly  leaving  the  house. 

Abbie  was  in  despair.  She  wrung  her  hands  and 
wept  in  anguish.  She  believed  he  had  gone  never 
to  return,  and  the  sun  of  her  life  seemed  to  have  set 
in  darkness.  Was  this  to  be  the  end?  She,  the 
bricle  of  scarcely  a  week,  a  forsaken  wife !  How 
terrible  an  ending  to  all  her  bright  dreams! 

Her  mother  had  heard  the  sound  of  their  voices, 
and  when  the  door  closed,  she  hastened  to  her 
daughter's  room.  Abbie  sprang  up,  and,  buiying 
her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom,  sobbed  out,  "O 
mother^  Steve  is  gone." 

"Gone?     Gone  where?" 

"I  cannot  tell,  but  he  said  it  was  forever." 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  shocked,  but  tried  to  soothe 
her  by  telling  her  that  he  could  not  be  in  earnest, 
and  would  soon  return,  and  trying  to  draw  from 
her  the  cause  of  the  trouble.  But  Abbie  felt  as 
though  she  could  not  explain,  so  she  said  nothing, 
but  continued  to  weep  in  silence. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  Rushford  stood 
before  them.  He  paused  in  astonishment,  as  he 
saw  Mrs.  Saunders,  her  arms  around  her  daughter. 
With  a  low  cry  of  joy,  Abbie  sprang  into  his  arms. 
The  mother  rose,  and,  looking  sternly  at  him,  spoke 
the  single  word, "  Steven."  His  eyes  fell  before  her, 
and  she  turned  and  left  them  alone. 


THE   WEDDING.  63 

Steven  placed  his  arm  tenderly  around  his  young 
wife  and  tried  to  soothe  her.  He  was  deeply  morti 
fied  that  his  conduct  was  known  to  the  mother. 
How  much  Abbie  had  told  her,  he  did  not  know. 
He  knew  Mrs.  Saunders  would  not  believe  him  in 
sane,  and  decided,  if  anything  was  said  on  the  sub 
ject,  to  pretend  it  was  a  joke.  He  now  felt  sure  of 
Abbie's  unquestioning  obedience.  He  had  repeat 
edly  crossed  her  will,  with  always  the  same  result, 
silent  acquiescence,  until  now.  Still,  he  could  not 
help  feeling  that  he  had  gone  just  a  little  too  far. 
This  last  trick  had  better  not  have  been  played. 
But  how  confiding  his  young  wife  was!  He  be 
lieved  that  nothing  but  fear  for  her  life  had  pre 
vented  her  from  going  with  him,  blindly.  Yes,  he 
could  deceive  her  readily  enough,  if  only  he  could 
the  older  eyes.  With  an  exultant  smile,  he  pressed 
her  to  his  breast,  and  said  soothingly:  "Did  my 
little  wife  think  I  could  go  away  and  leave  her? 
My  precious  little  girl !  There,  do  not  cry.  I  could 
not  live  without  you.  You  do  not  know  how  much 
I  love  you,  or  you  would  not  think  I  could  go. 
There,  there,  don't  cry.  I  was  only  in  fun." 

These  words  were  intended  to  soothe  her,  and 
they  did,  but  not  in  the  way  he  had  expected. 
They  had  roused  her  indignation,  for,  though  she 
loved  caresses,  she  did  not  love  to  be  treated  like  a 
baby.  Besides,  there  was  that  in  his  tone  which 
grated  on  her  feelings,  and  his  words,  too,  betrayed 
the  fact  that  he  was  perfectly  conscious  of  what  had 


64  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

happened,  while  she  had  supposed  him  to  be  insane 
at  the  time.  That  he  was  in  his  right  mind  now, 
she  did  not  doubt. 

The  truth  was  he  had  been  so  surprised  that  he 
had  forgotten  his  usual  caution.  Before  he  returned 
to  the  house,  his  plans  had  been  all  laid.  He  ex 
pected  to  find  her  ready  to  ask  his  forgiveness,  and 
intended  to  feign  unconsciousness  of  what  had 
happened,  and  surprise  at  being  out  of  the  house. 
If  she  had  consented  to  go,  he  would  have  feigned 
the  return  of  consciousness  before  they  left  the 
room.  When  she  refused  to  go  with  him,  he  had 
acted  upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  not  suppos 
ing  anyone  had  been  awakened.  He  had  not  ex 
pected  the  turn  affairs  had  taken,  and  was  thrown 
off  his  guard. 

Abbie  was  reluctant  to  believe  that  he  had  de 
ceived  her,  but  the  fact  was  self-evident.  Before  she 
rose  from  his  knees,  where  in  his  tenderness  he  had 
drawn  her,  she  was  convinced  that  she  had  been 
deceived. 

The  family  were  soon  astir,  and  Steven,  gently 
kissing  her,  put  her  from  him  and  joined  the  boys 
at  their  work.  Had  they  known  how  he  had  been 
employed  for  the  last  two  hours,  his  position  would 
not  have  been  so  pleasant. 

Though  Mrs.  Saunders  said  nothing,  Abbie  knew 
that  she  was  troubled  and  ill  at  ease.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  tumult  in  her  daughter's  breast,  for 
she  had  known  nothing  of  her  fears. 


THE    WEDDING.  65 

Poor  Abbie!  A  few  hours  before  she  had  be 
lieved  her  husband  to  be  insane ;  this  conviction 
was  forever  gone,  but  in  its  place  was  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  deceived  her.  Why  had  he  done  this? 
That  he  had  intended  to  make  her  believe  that  he 
was  subject  to  fits  of  insanity,  she  could  not  doubt. 
But  what  was  his  object?  She  was  sure  he  must 
have  some  object;  she  could  not  believe  that  a  mere 
love  of  torture  had  actuated  him.  She  remem 
bered  that  she  had  never  seen  any  of  these  symp 
toms  in  the  presence  of  others;  therefore,  it  must 
be  meant  for  her  alone.  She  determined  to  watch 
him  closely,  and,  by  strategy,  if  necessary,  learn  his 
object. 

He  believed  he  had  deceived  her;  he  should  still 
believe  so;  by  no  word  or  act  of  hers  should  he 
know  that  she  distrusted  him. 

But,  oh,  what  a  position  to  fill!  Scarcely  a  week 
had  passed  since  her  wedding  night;  yet  how 
changed  was  everything  with  her!  How  bitter  her 
lot !  How  dark  the  future !  Her  heart  must  have 
failed  her  entirely,  had  not  the  sweet  words  of  her 
mother  come  continually  to  her  mind,  "Trust  in 
God,  my  child."  How  sweet  those  words  were  to 
her !  What  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  trust  in  that 
arm  which  is  mighty  to  save,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
those  who  trust  in  him !  What  a  comfort  now,  in 
this  hour  of  trouble  and  disappointment!  But  for 
the  sustaining  power  of  the  grace  of  God,  she  must 
have  sunk  in  the  pool  of  despair. 
(5) 


66  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

She  had  fondly  hoped  for  a  life  of  peace  and 
love.  She  seemed  doomed  to  a  life  of  disappoint 
ment  and  fear.  Now  that  she  had  become  con 
vinced  that  she  had  been  purposely  deceived,  a  ter 
rible  fear  of  the  future  oppressed  her.  She  knew 
that  he  was  only  striving  to  gain  power  over  her. 
How  would  he  use  that  power?  What  might  not 
happen  ? 

She  shuddered  to  think  of  it,  and,  falling  upon 
her  knees,  she  prayed  for  strength  to  endure,  for. 
wisdom  to  guide  her  in  fresh  trials  (for  they  would 
come,  she  felt  sure),  for  courage  to  face  them 
firmly,  and  to  do  her  duty  unflinchingly. 

We  believe  her  prayer  was  heard  and  answered, 
for  in  all  the  bitter  trials  of  the  next  two  years,  she 
never  once  forgot  to  trust  in  God. 

She  looked  forward  with  dread  to  meeting  her 
husband  at  the  supper  hour,  but,  to  her  surprise, 
he  was  in  his  pleasantest  mood.  The  men  had 
been  chopping  a  race,  and  Will,  who  had  been 
boasting  that  he  could  do  as  much  as  the  best  man 
among  them,  had  'bushed,'  and  they  were  chafing 
him  sorely,  while  he  stoutly  protested  that  they 
had  not  given  him  fair  play,  and  he  was  not  beaten 
yet. 

"Just  give  me  a  fair  chance,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
show  you  what  a  man  can  do." 

"  Yes,  if  he  don't  happen  to  bump  his  nose,"  said 
Steve,  with  a  laugh. 

"Did  Will  bump  his  nose?"  asked  Roxy,  who 
was  always  ready  for  fun. 


THE   WEDDING.  6/ 

"  Don't  it  look  like  it?"  asked  Steve. 

"So  it  does,"  said  Roxy,  staring  at  him  quizzic 
ally. 

"Does?  I  should  think  it  did,"  said  Raz.  "It 
looks  as  red  as  any  toper's." 

"And  we  beat  him,  too,"  said  Steve,  laughing 
again. 

"  Indeed  you  did,"  said  Will.  "  You  didn't  give 
me  a  fair  chance." 

"But  how  did  it  happen?"  asked  Roxy,  looking 
eager. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Will.  "You  know 
they  are  always  laughing  at  me  because  I'm  small, 
and  pretend  I'm  not  worth  much,  though  they 
know  very  well  I'm  the  smartest  man  in  the  crowd. 
So  to-day  I  got  tired  of  their  nonsense,  and  chal 
lenged  them  for  a  race. 

"  I  could  see  they  were  a  little  afraid  to  tackle 
me,  but  they  were  ashamed  to  say  so,  and,  choosing 
two  logs  of  near  the  same  size,  Raz  and  Elton  took 
one,  and  Steve  and  I  took  the  other.  We  began 
all  fair  enough,  but  just  as  I  got  mine  about  half 
off,  Steve,  who  couldn't  help  seeing  that  I  was  beat 
ing  him  all  to  nothing,  managed  to  roll  the  log. 
Well,  you  see,  I  wasn't  looking  for  that,  and  some 
how  my  nose  came  in  sudden  contact  with  the 
ground.  I  felt  somewhat  astonished,  I  can  tell  you. 
Before  I  could  make  it  all  out,  and  get  back  to 
work,  they  were  done.  Now  I'll  leave  it  to  the 
crowd  if  that  was  a  fair  beat." 


68  ABBIE   SAUNDBRS. 

All  laughed  heartily  at  Will's  description  of  his 
mishap.  Many  jokes  followed,  and  the  supper  hour 
passed  pleasantly  away. 

When  they  had  finished  their  meal,  Will  said 
they  had  fairly  beaten  him  at  the  table,  if  they  had 
not  in  the  timber. 

"  Will  feels  so  bad  because  we  beat  him  that  he 
couldn't  eat  half  enough,"  laughed  Steve. 

"He  will  have  to  have  a  piece,"  chimed  in  Raz. 

"Yes,  he'll  be  going  to  the  cupboard  before 
night,"  said  Steve. 

"If  I  do,  I  wo't  lock  the  kitchen  door,  "  said 
Will,  winking  at  Abbie. 

A  laugh  followed  this  sally,  and  Joe  said  he 
guessed  Steve  "was  glad  he  didn't  say  nothing." 

Some  time  passed,  and  nothing  more  happened 
to  arouse  Abbie's  fears.  She  began  to  hope  that 
she  had  been  needlessly  alarmed,  and  grew  cheer 
ful  and  happy  again. 

Mr.  Saunders  returned,  and,  seeing  her  appear  so 
happy,  began  to  be  more  reconciled  to  the  match. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DARKER     DAYS. 

BOUT  this  time  Mr.  Elton,  who  had  oc 
cupied  the  shanty  on  the  Erastus  claim, 
began  to  talk  of  returning  to  his  friends  in 
Illinois,  for,  as  his  wife  did  not  like  the  country, 
he  had  decided  not  to  take  land,  but  return  and 
find  a  home  near  her  family,  which  he  soon  did, 
leaving  the  house  empty. 

It  was  soon  arranged  that  Abbie  and  Steve  were 
to  occupy  it.  Here  Abbie  had  her  first  experience 
in  housekeeping.  Her  house  consisted  of  only  one 
room,  ten  by  twelve  feet,  built  of  logs,  and  with  a 
board  roof.  A  small  bedstead  filled  one  corner  of 
the  room,  and  a  stove  another,  while  a  homemade 
basswood  table  stood  against  one  side  of  the  room. 
Above  it  were  three  shelves,  which  comprised  her 
cupboard.  Two  chairs  completed  the  furniture  of 
her  new  home,  yet  there  she  spent  the  happiest 
days  of  her  married  life. 

Her  husband  was  now  all  that  she  could  wish. 
He  was  very  kind  and  attentive,  and  during  the 
long  winter  evenings  he  spent  many  a  pleasant 
hour  fashioning  some  useful  article  of  furniture, 
until  Abbie  playfully  remarked  that  they  would 

(69) 


70  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

have  to  have  a  larger  house,  as  this  would  not  hold 
them  all. 

Her  brothers  and  sisters  often  came  to  visit  them, 
testing  the  ingenuity  of  the  young  hostess  to  seat 
them  comfortably.  This  would  be  accomplished 
at  last  by  the  ladies  taking  the  bed  for  a  sofa, 
while  Abbie's  trunk  was  drawn  out  to  serve  for  an 
other.  When  all  were  seated,  jokes  were  cracked, 
for  want  of  nuts.  The  boys  said  the  corn  popped 
as  well  as  though  they  all  had  chairs,  and  all  were 
as  happy  as  if  in  a  palace. 

The  winter  passed  away.  Spring  brought  plenty 
of  work  on  the  new  farm,  and  Steve  was  again  em 
ployed  by  Mr.  Saunders,  for  he  still  showed  no  in 
clination  to  take  land  of  his  own,  but  depended 
wholly  upon  his  father-in-law  for  support.  As 
might  be  supposed,  Mr.  Saunders  did  not  like  this 
state  of  affairs.  If  Steve  had  shown  himself  deter 
mined  to  make  a  home  for  his  young  wife,  he 
would  willingly  have  given  them  their  living  until 
they  should  be  able  to  raise  their  own.  This,  how 
ever,  Steve  showed  no  intention  of  doing,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  submit  for  his  daughter's  sake. 

Abbie,  too,  was  not  pleased,  but  as  her  husband 
had  been  very  kind  to  her,  and  as  the  unpleasant 
symptoms  of  the  first  week  of  her  marriage  seemed 
to  have  entirely  passed  away,  she  strove  to  con 
quer  all  unpleasant  reflections,  and  do  her  part  to 
ward  making  home  happy.  She  fully  believed  the 
words  of  the  Saviour,  "  Enter  into  thy  closet,  and 


DARKER    DAYS.  7! 

when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door,  pray  to  thy  Father 
which  is  in  secret;  and  thy  Father  which  seeth  in 
secret  shall  reward  thee  openly."  They  seemed  to 
have  been  written  expressly  for  her,  and  their  truth 
was  daily  verified  to  her.  It  had  become  her  daily 
custom  to  kneel  in  secret,  just  before  her  husband 
returned  from  the  field,  and  ask  the  blessing  of  her 
Father  upon  their  interview,  and  to  teach  her  her 
duty,  so  that,  if  possible,  she  might  gain  her  hus 
band's  love  to  that  extent  that  all  unpleasantness 
might  pass  away. 

Suddenly,  one  evening,  just  as  they  were  about 
to  retire  for  the  night,  Steve's  face  assumed  that 
strange,  wild  look.  He  sprang  to  the  side  of  his 
wife,  and,  as  if  in  mortal  terror,  clung  to  her,  look 
ing  toward  the  closed  door,  and  shrinking  behind 
her,  as  if  to  escape  some  terrible  object. 

The  farce  was  well  played,  but  Abbie  was  not 
deceived,  although  she  was  frightened.  It  had 
come  so  suddenly,  when  she  had  felt  so  secure. 
Her  first  thought  was  to  upbraid  him;  but  she 
hoped,  by  allowing  the  farce,  to  find  out  the  object 
he  had  in  view.  So  she  soothed  him  as  best  she 
could,  asking  what  had  frightened  him. 

He  would  not  answer,  but  continued  by  every 
act  to  evince  fear  of  something  from  the  door. 
She  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  to  bed,  and  at  last 
succeeded;  but  just  as  he  was  about  to  lay  his  head 
on  the  pillow,  he  sprang  up,  looked  eagerly  at  the 
door,  then  sprang  swiftly  through  it.  In  an  instant 


*72  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

he  was  back,  bearing  the  ax,  which  he  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  bed,  then  retired  with  a  satisfied  air. 

This  last  act  startled  her  more  than  anything 
else  had  done.  What  could  he  want  of  the  ax? 
Did  he  mean  to  kill  her?  A  shudder  passed 
through  her  frame  at  the  thought.  No;  she  would 
not  believe  it.  Again  from  her  heart  there  rose  a 
silent  prayer  to  God  for  strength  to  bear  this  new 
trial. 

Steve  lay  covertly  watching  her  as  she  disrobed, 
feeling  both  angry  and  surprised  at  her  undis 
turbed  manner.  He  could  not  know  the  terrible 
tumult  in  her  breast,  or  how  fervently  she  had 
prayed  to  be  delivered  from  further  trial;  nor  could 
he  know  how  firm  was  her  faith  in  God,  or  the  wild 
prayer  that  was  then  rising  to  heaven  that  she 
might  yet  gain  her  husband's  love.  He  did  not 
know  that  this  distrust  of  him,  this  knowledge  that 
he  loved  to  play  with  her  fears, 'was  a  greater  trial 
to  this  gentle,  trusting  heart  than  bodily  harm 
could  be.  He  only  felt  that  she  was  not  deceived, 
that  she  must  despise  him,  and  anger  and  mortifi 
cation  suggested  revenge. 

From  that  day  he  seemed  to  be  constantly  try 
ing  to  vex  her.  Little  things  were  done  that  he 
knew  she  did  not  like;  yet  he  still  professed  great 
love  for  her.  She  would  pass  them  by  without  a 
word;  she  knew  he  did  those  things  to  torment 
her,  and  she  tried  hard  not  to  notice  them.  Her 
very  silence  seemed  to  vex  him,  yet,  if  she  spoke 


DARKER    DAYS.  73 

to  him  in  the  most  gentle  entreaty,  he  would  be 
come  very  angry,  accusing  her  of  making  a  great 
fuss,  and  trying  to  make  people  believe  he  was  a 
terribly  bad  fellow,  although  he  knew  she  never 
spoke  of  the  matter  in  the  presence  of  others. 

The  summer  passed.  The  grain  was  harvested, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  winter.  Mr.  Saun- 
ders  had  built  a  new  house  on  his  place,  and  Steve 
and  Abbie  moved  into  the  old  one  vacated  by  him. 
The  large,  roomy  apartment  was  a  pleasant  change 
from  the  one  in  which  Abbie  had  taken  her  first 
lessons  in  housekeeping.  And  now  she  had  to 
take  another  lesson  in  this  important  branch  of  la 
bor, — the  arranging  of  her  homemade  furniture  to 
the  best  advantage. 

This  was  a  pleasant  occupation  to  her.  When 
all  was  done  that  she  could  do  to  make  home  happy, 
and  the  evening  meal  was  spread,  she  sat  down  by 
the  fire,  over  which  the  kettle  was  singing  cheerily, 
and  looked  about  her.  She  felt  for  a  moment  as  if 
she  could  be  happy;  then,  as  she  thought  of  her 
husband,  a  feeling  of  despair  began  to  creep  into 
her  heart. 

Winter  came  on.  But  for  her  friends  she  would 
have  suffered  much  from  neglect.  She  was  con 
fined  to  the  house,  and,  as  her  mother  could  not 
see  her  often  on  account  of  sickness  at  home,  she 
felt  quite  forsaken.  But  "Trust  in  God"  was  still 
her  motto.  Indeed,  she  had  need  to  trust — scarcely 
one  year  married,  yet  only  the  wreck  of  her  former 


74  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

self!  One  short  year  ago  she  was  happy  and  free, 
now — must  we  say  it? — an  unloved  wife,  doomed  to 
terrible  torture  from  him  who  had  promised  at  the 
altar  to  love,  cherish,  and  protect  her. 

Oh,  how  fervently  she  prayed  for  the  love  of  her 
husband!  How  she  dreaded  his  approach,  yet 
how  she  longed  for  his  love!  There  had  been  a 
time  when  she  feared  she  should  learn  to  hate 
him.  Now,  for  her  sake — for  the  sake  of  her  un 
born  babe — she  prayed  for  his  love.  She  felt  that 
she  could  forgive  him  freely  for  all  the  pain  that  he 
had  caused  her  if  he  would  only  love  her  again, 
and  she  prayed  for  strength  to  bear  her  suffering 
patiently. 

She  had  need  of  strength.  Her  husband  re 
turned  at  night  in  a  towering  passion  with  her 
father.  He  had  offended  him  in  some  way,  and 
words  could  not  express  his  anger.  He  com 
pletely  exhausted  himself  in  pouring  out  abusive 
words,  declaring  he  would  kill  him  before  he  slept. 
The  trembling  wife  dared  not  utter  a  word,  even  to 
ask  the  cause  of  his  anger,  but  she  gathered  from 
his  words  that  he  hated  the  old  curmudgeon,  that 
he  had  been  trying  some  time  to  pick  a  quarrel, 
but  the  old  hypocrite  pretended  to  be  too  pious, 
and  treated  him  for  all  the  world  like  a  puppy;  he 
would  make  him  speak — so  he  would — or  he  would 
break  his  old  head  for  him. 

"  I'll  kill  him  before  I  sleep,"  he  cried,  rising  and 
rushing  out. 


DARKER    DAYS.  75 

Abbie  was  more  frightened  now  than  she  had 
ever  been  for  herself.  She  hardly  dared  move  un 
til  he  was  gone;  then,  throwing  herself  upon  the 
bed,  she  wept  until  she  could  weep  no  more.  In 
imagination  she  saw  her  father  slain  by  her  hus 
band's  hand.  The  picture  was  a  fearful  one!  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  pillow  to  shut  out  the  horri 
ble  scene. 

She  lay,  trembling  and  exhausted,  until  she  heard 
footsteps  approach  the  door.  Her  husband  en 
tered  quietly,  and,  seeing  that  she  had  retired, 
stealthily  approached  the  bed.  Leaning  over,  he 
peered  into  her  face.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and 
dared  not  move,  lest  his  anger  be  turned  upon  her. 
Satisfying  himself  that  she  slept,  he  went  quietly 
to  bed,  and  was  soon  snoring  loudly.  Abbie  was 
much  exhausted,  and  soon  fell  asleep. 

O  gentle  sleep,  thou  great  restorer  of  exhausted 
nature,  what  a  blessing  thou  art  to  poor  mortals, 
while  struggling  through  this  vale  of  tears! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   BIRTH   OF   LITTLE   ELLA. 

IP" AYS  pass,  and  we  again  enter  the  home  of 
our  heroine.  Everything  is  quiet  and  in 
order.  A  bright  fire  burns  in  the  stove. 
A  chair  sits  beside  it,  on  which  rests  the  family 
cat,  purring  gently  to  herself.  At  first  the  room 
seems  deserted;  soon  a  sound  attracts  our  atten 
tion;  we  turn,  and  on  a  bed  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  lies  the  young  wife. 

She  is  very  pale  and  thin ;  hard  lines  are  drawn 
around  her  mouth;  on  her  forehead  sad  marks 
of  pain  and  sorrow  are  plainly  visible.  She  is 
asleep,  but  soon  a  nestling  sound  is  heard,  then 
a  tiny  voice,  and  the  young  mother  wakes  with 
a  start.  Hearing  the  voice  at  her  side,  a  sweet 
and  holy  light  comes  into  her  listless  eyes,  while 
she  gently  raises  the  little  form,  and,  clasping  it  in 
her  arms,  tries  to  soothe  it  with  tender,  loving 
words. 

It  was  a  sad  but  beautiful  sight.  The  pale  young 
mother,  with  her  large  black  eyes,  seeming  ever 
to  remind  you  of  a  life  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  with 
her  pallid  cheek  resting  on  the  snow-white  pillow; 
the  babe,  scarce  a  week  old,  whose  cheek  she  has 
(76) 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  // 

placed  lovingly  upon  her  own,  gazing  with  its 
large,  wondering  blue  eyes  at  whatever  object  they 
chanced  to  meet,  made  a  picture  for  a  painter. 

They  were  alone.  Neighbors  were  scarce,  as  is 
often  the  case  in  a  new  country,  and  a  nurse  could 
not  be  found.  Mrs.  Saunders  was  obliged  to  di 
vide  her  time  between  her  daughter  and  her  own 
family.  She  had  been  there  several  hours,  and 
made  them  as  comfortable  as  possible.  She  was 
then  obliged  to  return  home,  and  had  left  her 
daughter  in  the  care  of  her  husband.  Soon  after 
she  left,  Mr.  Rushford  had  risen,  stepped  to  the 
door,  looked  out,  then  turned  to  his  wife,  saying, 
"  I  guess  I'll  step  over  to  the  post  office  a  min 
ute." 

Abbie  started  in  surprise.  It  was  two  miles  to 
the  post  office,  and  she  knew  he  could  not  return 
in  less  than  two  hours,  as  the  ground  was  covered 
with  snow,  and  scarcely  any  road.  She  was  not 
able  to  rise  from  her  bed.  Her  mother  had  gone 
home,  supposing  she  was  in  good  care,  and  prob 
ably  would  not  call  again  until  evening.  What 
might  not  happen  to  her  and  her  darling  while  he 
was  away?  She  knew  it  was  useless  to  ask  him  to 
stay,  but  fear  lent  her  courage,  and  she  said  tim 
idly:— 

'* Please  do  not  stay  long.     I  shall  be  so  lonely." 

"Oh,  you  will  be  all  right!"  he  answered  care 
lessly. 

"But  the  fire  will  be  all  out,"  she  urged,  almost 
hoping  to  persuade  him  to  stay. 


78  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"I  will  build  one  now,"  he  said,  going  to  the 
stove  and  filling  it  with  wood.  "There,  now  you 
will  be  all  right." 

"But  suppose  baby  should  cry?"  making  one 
more  effort  to  detain  him. 

"Still  her,  then,"  was  the  heartless  answer,  as  he 
went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

Abbie  looked  anxiously  at  the  clock.  It  was 
half  past  two.  He  would  be  back  by  half  past 
four.  For  some  time  she  lay  quietly  watching  the 
fire  as  it  crackled  and  blazed,  throwing  out  a  genial 
warmth.  The  cat  came  soberly  up  and  climbed 
into  a  chair  to  enjoy  it. 

How  cozy  and  quiet  it  seemed!  Baby  still  slept 
sweetly.  Perhaps  it  would  sleep  until  its  father 
returned.  She  nestled  closer  to  the  pillow,  and  fell 
asleep.  She  slept  soundly  until  roused  by  the  low 
wail  of  her  babe.  She  succeeded  in  quieting  it  for  a 
few  minutes,  as  we  have  seen,  but  not  for  long.  It 
soon  began  to  clamor  for  food,  which  she  could  not 
give  it  without  assistacce.  The  fire  was  out,  and 
the  room  was  as  cold  as  a  winter  day  could  make 
it. 

She  could  not  even  rise  in  bed  without  danger 
to  herself.  Baby's  cries  grew  louder  and  more  vio 
lent.  She  must  do  something.  She  feebly  rose  to 
a  sitting  posture,  and  strove  to  still  the  child  with 
its  natural  food.  But  she  was  weak,  nervous,  and 
inexperienced,  and  the  babe  continued  to  cry.  Oh, 
if  she  could  only  get  to  the  fire!  She  was  almost 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  79 

fainting  with  cold  and  weariness,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  her  husband  appeared.  A  look  of  re 
lief  came  over  her  face,  quickly  followed  by  one  of 
fear  and  anxiety.  Her  husband  glanced  around 
the  room,  then  bade  her  lie  down.  She  obeyed,  not 
daring  to  refuse. 

He  strode  to  the  stove,  built  a  fire,  then,  coming 
to  the  bed,  took  the  child,  which  was  still  crying, 
roughly  from  its  mother's  arms,  went  to  the  stove, 
and  sat  down  moodily,  doing  nothing  to  quiet  the 
child.  The  babe  soon  cried  itself  to  sleep,  when  it 
was  returned  to  the  mother,  with  the  remark, 
"There,  I  guess  it's  done  now." 

Abbie  clasped  it  to  her  breast,  which  was  just  then 
filled  with  such  a  mixture  of  emotions  as  it  is  impos 
sible  to  describe.  Would  she  ever  forget  that  hour? 
Yet  her  cup  of  woe  was  hardly  tasted.  Baby  slept 
the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  Abbie  received  her 
supper  from  the  hands  of  her  husband,  and  ate  it  in 
silence.  Will  called  in  the  evening  to  say  that 
mother  could  not  come  until  morning. 

Soon  baby  woke,  and  again  cried  for  food. 
Abbie  rose  to  supply  it,  but  before  it  was  satisfied, 
her  husband  ordered  her  to  lie  down.  She  begged 
for  a  few  minutes  more,  which  angered  him,  and, 
snatching  the  child  from  her  arms,  he  again  ordered 
her  to  lie  down. 

She  obeyed,  trembling  with  fear  for  the  child. 
He  took  it  in  his  arms,  and  repeated  the  operation 
of  the  afternoon.  Three  times  did  it  cry,  until  it 


80  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

had  to  stop  from  sheer  exhaustion,  its  little  voice 
growing  weaker  and  weaker,  until  it  could  make 
no  sound.  Then  the  father  gave  it  back  to  the 
trembling  mother,  with  the  heartless  remark:  "There, 
she's  quiet  now.  Give  her  some  dinner." 

But  the  poor  babe  was  so  exhausted  that  it  could 
take  no  nourishment,  and  Abbie  feared  for  its  life. 
It  lay  like  one  dead,  scarcely  breathing.  Oh,  what 
anguish  filled  the  mother's  heart  at  this  moment! 
Alas,  pen  cannot  describe  it!  If  she  could  only 
take  it  to  the  fire!  But  she  could  not.  She  dared 
do  nothing  but  clasp  it  to  her  aching  breast,  while 
the  father  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  But  she  was  too  frightened  to 
sleep.  What  should  she  do,  what  could  she  do,  to 
avert  the  danger  she  felt  threatened  her  darling! 
For  herself  she  did  not  care.  She  could  bear  until 
death  released  her  from  her  suffering. 

Was  it  not  her  duty  to  make  known  her  situation 
to  her  friends,  and  solicit  their  protection,  for  her 
babe's  sake,  if  not  for  her  own?  She  knew  that,  if 
she  would  tell  her  story  and  leave  her  cruel  hus 
band,  they  would  welcome  her  home,  and  protect 
her  with  their  lives.  This  was  a  dreadful  alterna 
tive,  and  she  could  not  conclude  to  adopt  it.  Weary 
and  exhausted,  she  at  last  fell  asleep. 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  dawn,  Mr.  Rushford 
rose,  dressed  himself,  and  turned  to  look  at  his  wife. 
Her  face  was  plainly  revealed,  as  she  lay  all  uncon 
scious  of  his  gaze.  How  pale  and  thin  she  looked  1 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  8 1 

Could  it  be  death?  No,  no,  not  that!  He  shud 
dered  at  the  thought,  and  tried  to  turn  away,  but  he 
could  not.  Again  his  gaze  was  fastened  upon  her. 
He  saw  the  infant  clasped  tenderly  in  her  arms. 
She  seemed  trying  to  protect  it  while  she  slept. 
There  were  traces  of  tears  on  her  face.  The  babe 
nestled  in  her  bosom;  she  moved  uneasily  and  a 
sigh  escaped  her.  Opening  her  eyes,  she  saw  his 
gaze  fixed  upon  her.  Fear  held  her  quiet,  while  he, 
starting  like  some  guilty  thing,  turned  and  busied 
himself  about  the  fire. 

That  scene  had  stirred  up  some  remaining  spark 
of  humanity,  and  a  feeling  of  remorse  came  over 
him.  He  called  himself  a  villain,  and  resolved  to 
reform.  He  went  back  to  their  first  acquaintance, 
and  remembered  how  his  interest  in  his  pale  young 
wife  had  been  first  awakened,  not  by  any  arts  of 
hers  to  attract  him,  but  by  her  patient  and  unre 
mitting  attention  to  duty. 

He  remembered  his  first  deception,  and  his  un 
reasonable  thirst  for  revenge  on  her  for  her  fancied 
coldness;  how  he  had  remained  in  the  family,  pre 
tending;  great  love  for  his  mother's  old  friend ;  how 

O    o 

he  had  pressed  his  claims  to  her  hand  at  the  first 
opportunity;  how  he  had  hastened  the  wedding 
day,  lest  something  might  happen  to  open  their 
eyes  and  thwart  his  plans;  how  impatient  he  had 
been  to  be  sure  she  was  all  his  own;  how  soon  he 
had  commenced  his  system  of  revenge! 

He  knew  that  she  bore  on  her  person,  at  that 
6 


82  ABBIE   SAUXDERS. 

moment,  many  a  mark  of  his  cruelty,  though  he 
had  taken  care  that  they  should  be  well  concealed. 
Now  that  conscience  had  been  allowed  to  speak, 
she  accused  him  unmercifully.  A  strong  desire  to 
confess  his  fault  took  possession  of  him,  but  he 
feared  he  should  then  lose  his  power  over  her.  No, 
he  would  not  do  that.  He  would  be  kind  to  her 
and  the  child.  That  would  be  sufficient.  There 
was  no  need  to  humiliate  himself.  He  rose  and 
approached  the  bed. 

Abbie,  who  had  been  watching  him,  not  daring 
to  speak,  was  surprised  and  pleased  to  see  a  look 
of  tenderness  in  his  face.  When  he  spoke  pleas 
antly  to  her,  a  flush  of  joy  overspread  her  face,  and 
she  was  ready  to  forget  all  his  former  unkindness. 

"How  is  my  little  wife  this  morning?"  he  asked, 
in  tones  as  strange  as  they  were  sweet. 

"Much  better,"  she  replied,  almost  believing,  for 
a  moment,  her  troubles  forever  past. 

"lam  so  glad,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  you 
could  be  helped  to  your  chair?  It  would  seem  so 
pleasant  to  see  you  up  again." 

Abbie  was  so  happy  she  could  hardly  speak, 
but  she  faltered  out,  "  Mother  will  be  here  soon, 
and  we  can  ask  her." 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  it  will 
be  best  to  wait.  In  the  meantime,  I  will  get  our 
breakfast." 

He  bustled  about  with  a  cheerful  air,  putting 
things  to  rights,  and  preparing  for  breakfast  with 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  83 

an  alacrity  that  was  truly  surprising.  Abbie  took 
the  meal  from  his  hands  with  feelings  of  thankful 
ness  and  wonder.  She  had  prayed  so  fervently  for 
his  love.  Could  it  be  that  her  prayer  was  an 
swered? 

Mrs.  Saunders  soon  came  in,  shaking  the  snow 
from  her  garments. 

"How  do  you  all  do  this  morning?"  she  asked, 

"Nicely,"  said  Steve.  "Abbie  is  better,  and  we 
have  been  talking  of  getting  her  up." 

"You  do  indeed  look  better,"  she  said,  looking 
at  Abbie.  "  There  is  quite  a  flush  on  your  cheek." 
Then,  turning  to  Steve,  she  added,  "I  think  she 
may  get  up  a  little  while." 

Steve  seemed  pleased,  and  stood  ready  to  do  all 
he  could.  Abbie,  still  wondering  at  his  altered 
appearance,  gladly  accepted  his  assistance.  She 
did  not  know  that  he  feared,  every  time  her  mother 
came  near  her,  that  she  might  discover  those  un 
lucky  scars,  and  find  out  that  they  were  made  by 
his  hand.  When  she  had  been  placed  in  a  com 
fortable  position,  he  felt  safer,  and  sat  down  by  the 
stove. 

Mrs.  Saunders  took  up  the  babe,  and  soon  no 
ticed  that  all  was  not  right. 

"Why,  Abbie,  baby  is  sick!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  the  limp  little  form  lay  "  like  a  rag,"  she  said, 
upon  her  lap. 

Abbie  bent  over  it  in  alarm.  She  had  feared  as 
much.  Steve  started  from  his  chair,  and  came  to 


84  ABBIE   SAUXDERS. 

look  at  the  child.  Its  face  was  pale,  and  wore  a 
pinched  expression,  while  it  seemed  too  weak  to 
move.  They  began  to  remove  the  wraps.  Mrs. 
Saunders  uttered  an  exclamation  of  alarm. 

"What  is  it?  Oh!  what  is  the  matter?"  cried 
Abbie. 

"  Has  she  been  crying  much? "asked  her  mother. 

"Yes,"  said  Abb'ie,  then  stopped  in  confusion. 

Mrs.  Saunders  quickly  undressed  the  child,  and 
found  it  slowly  bleeding  to  death.  Hurriedly  she 
changed  the  bandages  and  stopped  the  bleeding. 
After  administering  a  restorative,  she  asked  Abbie 
how  it  had  happened. 

It  was  a  trying  moment.  Abbie  was  weeping  at 
the  danger  of  the  child.  She  thought  of  the  cause, 
and  indignation  filled  her  heart.  She  longed  to 
tell  her  mother  the  whole  story.  Then  she  re 
membered  his  kindness  of  the  morning,  and  de 
cided  to  shield  him,  hoping  he  would  really  reform. 
So  she  said:  "Steve  had  to  go  out,  and  I  was 
alone  a  short  time.  She  woke  and  I  could  not 
still  her.  Steve  came  in  and  took  her,  but  she 
cried  until  she  fell  asleep." 

Steve  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  had  cov 
ered  up  his  infamous  act,  if  she  had  not  lied.  Not 
one  word  had  been  said  of  the  walk  to  the  post 
office,  not  one  word  that  would  imply  that  he  had 
been  gone  more  than  a  few  minutes. 

Mrs.  Saunders  accepted  the  explanation,  but  told 
her  there  was  great  danger  that  the  child  would 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE   ELLA.  85 

not  live.  Turning  to  Steve,  she  asked  him  to  go 
and  tell  her  family  that  she  could  not  come  at 
present,  and  sat  down  to  watch  the  little  sufferer. 
Abbie  was  again  put  to  bed  by  Steve,  who  had  not 
been  long  absent,  and  who  did  not  again  leave  the 
room  while  Mrs.  Saunders  remained. 

He  was  afraid  Abbie  might  conclude  to  tell  her 
mother  all  that  had  happened.  He  need  not  have 
feared.  Once  she  had  decided  to  screen  him,  noth 
ing  could  have  induced  her  to  disclose  her  secret. 

o 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  both  grieved  and  angry  at 
what  had  happened.  She  knew  Abbie  had  kept 
back  something,  and,  though  she  did  not  imagine 
the  truth,  she  felt  sure  the  child  had  not  been  well 
cared  for,  and  she  decided  to  be  more  watchful  in 
the  future. 

But  her  duties  at  home  would  prevent  her  from 
remaining  with  them,  so  she  must  see  if  something 
could  not  be  done.  Steve  seemed  to  be  uncon 
scious  of  the  danger  of  the  child,  and  she  felt  that  its 
safety,  or  that  of  its  mother,  must  not  be  intrusted 
to  his  care.  She  racked  her  brain  to  think  of  some 
one  who  might  come,  but  she  could  not  think  of 
one  who  had  not  been  called  upon,  and  gave  up  in 
despair,  saying  she  must  send  Roxy,  though  how 
she  could  spare  her  she  did  not  see. 

Abbie  had  noticed  a  change  in  her  husband 
within  the  last  few  hours.  When  the  illness  of  the 
babe  had  been  discovered,  he  had  evinced  such 
strong  emotion  that  Abbie  hoped  it  would  be  a 


86  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

lasting  lesson.  He  turned  pale  and  did  not  speak, 
but  when  she  was  questioned,  he  gave  her  such  a 
beseeching  look  that  she  could  not  expose  his  con 
duct  to  her  mother.  It  could  not  benefit  the  child, 
and  might  do  harm,  she  had  argued.  When  she 
had  told  her  story,  shielding  him  from  blame,  he 
felt  such  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  could  have  thanked 
her  heartily,  yet  he  could  not  but  fear  that  she 
might  yet  say  something  that  would  attach  blame 
to  him. 

As  time  passed,  and  the  babe  seemed  to  revive, 
and  nothing  more  was  said  to  arouse  his  fears  for 
himself,  he  became  exultant,  believing  she  dared 
not  tell,  and  he  was  safe.  His  manner  had  changed, 
and  Abbie  grew  more  and  more  uneasy.  She  was 
glad  her  sister  was  coming,  but  she  felt  she  would 
be  little  protection. 

Roxy  came,  and  for  several  days  there  was  noth 
ing  especial  to  trouble  her  mind.  The  babe  im 
proved,  she  felt  her  strength  returning,  and  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  to  the  time  when  she  could 
resume  her  usual  duties.  Her  husband,  though 
not  as  attentive  as  at  first,  was  not  really  unkind, 
and,  relieved  from  actual  torture,  she  felt  she  could 
endure  to  the  end.  Again  hope  returned  to 
brighten  her  path,  so  full  of  sadness. 

Alas,  her  cup  of  sorrow  was  scarcely  tasted,  and 
she  was  doomed  to  drain  it  to  the  very  dregs! 
Her  careful  concealment  of  her  husband's  misdeeds 
had  emboldened  him,  and  he  was,  even  now,  con 
templating  other  acts  of  cruelty. 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  8/ 

The  room  was  so  pleasant,  and  had  such  an  air 
of  comfort  this  morning.  Roxy,  though  but  four 
teen  years  old,  was  spry  and  active,  and  everything 
in  the  poor,  plain  room  was  as  neat  as  she  could 
make  it.  A  bright  fire  gave  out  a  genial  warmth. 
Abbie  sat  near  it,  looking  pale  and  thin,  with  her 
babe  on  her  knee.  As  she  gazed  upon  its  little 
face,  a  smile  lighted  up  her  own. 

Roxy  bent  over  the  little  form,  saying,  "Oh, 
isn't  she  sweet,  Abbie!" 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  fond  pride. 

"She  will  look  so  pretty  when  she  learns  to 
laugh,"  said  Roxy. 

"She  looks  pretty  now,"  said  the  fond  mother, 
to  whom  the  babe  on  her  lap  was  the  perfection  of 
beauty. 

The  little  red  face,  with  its  blue,  wondering  eyes, 
the  nose,  the  mouth,  the  chin,  even  the  thin,  color 
less  hair,  which  seemed  striving  to  cover  the  little 
round  head,  was  a  marvel  of  beauty  to  her. 

What  a  cozy  picture  they  made — the  pale  young 
mother,  the  infant  on  her  knee,  and  the  still  younger 
auntie  bending  over  it  with  fond  pride! 

Alas,  that  it  should  be  so  rudely  disturbed! 
They  started,  as  footsteps  were  heard  at  the  door. 
The  latch  was  raised,  and  Steve  entered  with  a 
swagger,  and  sat  down  near  them.  He  looked  at 
them  with  an  insolent  leer,  took  out  a  roll  of  to 
bacco,  and,  taking  a  large  mouthful,  rolled  it  into 
one  cheek,  then,  looking  around  him  with  a  comic 
air,  he  said: — 


88  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"Well,  now,  this  is  comfortable!  Here  I've  got 
a  wife,  a  baby,"  emphasizing  the  words  in  the  most 
disagreeable  manner,  "and  a  little  girl  to  wait  on 
them.  How  happy  I  ought  to  be!"  He  waited 
for  some  reply,  but  neither  deigned  to  speak.  His 
manner,  more  than  his  words,  was  displeasing  to 
them.  "  Say,  wife,"  he  continued,  "  don't  you  think 
I  ought  to  be  happy?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  feeling  that  she  must  say  some 
thing.  There  was  a  touching  pathos  in  her  voice, 
and  a  strange  earnestness  in  her  look  as  she  said 
this,  but  he  did  not  heed  it. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  he;  "this  is  charming.  Here's 
Abbie,  looking  as  old  and  motherly  as  need  be — 
why,  she  don't  look  no  more  like  she  did  a  year 
ago  than  nothing,  and  she  can  just  thank  me  for  it 
all,"  with  a  grimace  which  did  not  hide  his  wicked 
smile.  "I've  just  made  her  what  she  is.  Haven't 
I,  wife?" 

"  You  have,  indeed,"  she  answered  bitterly,  her 
heart  swelling  with  indignation,  as  she  thought  of 
his  cold-blooded  cruelty. 

Roxy  looked  on  in  surprise  and  wonder.  She 
knew  nothing  of  Abbie's  trials  and  suffering,  and  of 
course  could  not  realize  how  cruel  his  remarks 
really  were.  She  had  never  thought  much  of  her 
brother-in-law,  but  she  did  not  know  he  was  ac 
tually  cruel. 

He  felt  the  bitterness  in  her  tone,  and  exulted  in 
the  pain  he  was  giving.  "Of  course  I  have,"  he 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LITTLE    ELLA.  89 

said.  "If  it  had  not  been  for  my  judicious  treat 
ment  you  might  have  looked  as  rosy  and  green 
now  as  you  did, when  Charley  saw  you  last,"  and 
he  looked  at  her  keenly  to  note  the  effect  of  his 
words.  The  effect  was  greater  than  he  had  ex 
pected.  She  had  felt  his  cruel  thrusts  deeply — 
how  deeply  he  could  never  know.  When  he  had 
spoken  that  name,  every  vestige  of  color  had  left 
her  face,  and  she  sank  back  like  one  dead. 

He  was  startled,  and,  coming  to  her,  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  He  was  very 
tender  and  arranged  the  bedclothing  with  care, 
then,  placing  the  babe  in  her  arms,  he  stood  off 
and  contemplated  the  picture. 

His  trepidation  had  lasted  only  while  he  thought 
her  fainting.  As  he  looked  at  her  as  she  lay,  a 
little  paler,  perhaps,  than  usual,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  his  face  as  if  she  would  read  his  very  heart,  he 
almost  relented.  But,  smothering  the  feeling  of 
shame  that  came  over  him,  he  said:  "I  wonder  how 
he  would  like  that  picture?  I  hardly  think  he 
would  know  you." 

She  made  no  sign,  spoke  no  word,  but  continued 
to  gaze  at  him.  He  flinched  before  her  gaze,  and, 
turning  on  his  heel  with  a  coarse  attempt  at  a 
laugh,  sat  down  by  the  stove.  He  was  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  then  began  such  a  scene  as  pen* can 
not  describe. 

He  would  taunt  Roxy,  saying  everything  he 
could  to  vex  her,  then  he  would  break  out  with  a 


90  ABBIE   SAUXDERS. 

snatch  of  some  rude  song,  then,  turning  to  his  wife, 
he  would  ask  with  mock  solicitude  how  she  felt. 
Receiving  no  answer,  save  the  gaze  of  those  eyes 
which  had  troubled  him,  he  would  laugh  aloud. 
He  seemed  perfectly  reckless,  never  pausing,  but 
going  from  one  thing  to  another  with  perfect  heart  - 
lessness. 

Once  he  asked  her  what  she  would  do  if  he 
should  commit  some  terrible  crime.  She  did  not 
answer  until  forced  to,  then  said  she  did  not 
know."  Poor  thing!  she  did  not  know.  She  only 
knew  that  the  terrible  truth  had  been  forced  home 
to  her  heart  that  there  was  not  one  spark  of  love  in 
her  husband's  heart  for  her;  that  he  had  married 
her  only  for  revenge.  She  felt  that  his  future 
pleasure  lay  in  torturing  her.  That  he  was  expe 
dient  in  devising  means  of  torture,  she  had  learned 
to  her  cost. 

She  tried  to  picture  to  herself  what  her  future 
life  must  be,  but  her  brain  refused  to  work.  She 
longed  to  fly  from  all  this  misery,  but  she  could  do 
nothing.  She  settled  into  a  cold,  calm  state  of 
apathy,  seeming  to  wait,  wait — she  knew  not  for 
what. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FURTHER    CRUELTIES. 

TEVE  RUSHFORD  looked  at  his  wife 
keenly  for  a  moment,  and  then  said:  "Don't 
know?  Begin  to  think,  then,  for  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do.  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  do!  I  think  I'll 
take  you  down  to  my  mother's.  She'll  help  me  train 
you.  I  haven't  half  a  chance  here.  'Fraid  of  your 
folks,  you  see.  They  might  interfere  with  me  here. 
There'll  be  no  danger  there,  and  if  I  want  any  help, 
there  is  plenty  to  lend  a  hand.  Will  you  go?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said  mechanically,  for  it  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  she  could  do  otherwise  if  he 
chose  to  take  her  there. 

He  elevated  his  eyebrows  in  surprise,  evidently 
expecting  a  different  answer,  then  went  on:  "All 
right.  But  you  can  say 'good-by'  to  your  folks, 
for  you'll  never  see  them  again."  He  paused  for  a 
response,  but,  receiving  none,  continued:  "  I  don't 
mean  you  shall  have  anything  more  to  do  with  any 
of  them.  They  make  you  so  ugly  I  can't  live  with 
you." 

He  knew  this  was  false,  but  he  was  becoming 
angry  because  she  would  not  talk'  and  thought  to 
force  her  to  retort.  But  she  did  not  answer,  and 

(90 


92  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

he  went  on,  repeating  that  he  meant  to  take  her 
entirely  away  from  all  the  Saunderses;  but,  on  sec 
ond  thought,  he  would  not  take  her  to  his  mother, 
for  she  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  pity  the 
daughter  of  her  old  friend;  he  would  go  away  into 
the  wilderness  somewhere;  he  did  not  need  help; 
he  could  manage  her  himself,  once  he  got  her  away 
from  her  folks. 

He  liked  the  plan  better,  as  he  went  on,  and  con 
cluded  to  start  next  week.  She  would  be  well 
enough  by  that  time,  and  as  he  was  determined  to 
go,  the  sooner  it  was  over  the  better.  He  ex 
pected  her  "dad"  would  make  a  great  fuss,  but  he 
could  soon  "settle  him."  If  there  was  one  Saun- 
ders  less  in  the  world  when  he  left,  so  much  the 
better  for  the  world.  Abbie  need  not  take  any 
pains  to  fix  up,  for  she  would  likely  not  live  to  get 
there'  anyway.  Perhaps  he  better  not  take  her,  it 
wrould  only  be  trouble  for  nothing,  and  he  hated 
the  whole  Saunders  race. 

Of  course  he  must  take  his  baby.  He  couldn't 
be  expected  to  go  without  his  baby,  all  the  baby  he 
had  in  the  world.  Yes,  he  would  take  it  along. 
His  mother  could  take  care  of  it.  He  would  never 
leave  it  there  to  be  brought  up  among  the  Saun 
derses. 

At  the  mention  of  taking  the  child,  the  young 
mother  started,  partly  rose,  and  appeared  to  be  go 
ing  to  speak,  then  dropped  back  on  her  pillow.  He 
saw  this  move,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  demoniac 


FURTHER    CRUELTIES.  93 

pleasure.  He  had  made  her  feel  at  last,  and  with 
renewed  vigor  he  continued. 

He  pictured  the  grief  of  the  little  one,  as  it  was 
taken  from  its  worthless  mother-,  the  cold  and 
hunger  it  might  be  expected  to  suffer;  but,  if  it 
lived  to  get  there,  his  mother  would  take  good  care 
of  it,  and  bring  it  up  decently.  He  should  take 
good  care  that  it  was  taught  to  hate  its  mother,  and 
all  her  relatives. 

All  this  and  much  more  he  said,  stopping  to  note 
the  effect  of  each  cruel  speech.  He  was  surprised 
at  her  passive  coldness.  Only  once  had  she 
evinced  any  feeling,  and  then  only  for  a  moment. 
He  feared  he  was  losing  all  his  power  over  her. 

Alas,  the  heart  was  frozen  with  grief !  While 
she  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  scarcely  turning 
them  away,  she  would  not  have  raised  a  hand  if  he 
had  placed  a  knife  to  her  throat. 

Exasperated  at  not  being  enabled  to  elicit  any 
show  of  grief,  he  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  coming  near  her  head  and  talking  in  a  differ 
ent  strain.  His  tone  was  low  and  fierce.  He  said 
it  would  be  much  better  if  she  were  dead.  Then 
she  would  not  care  what  became  of  the  babe.  Stop 
ping  suddenly,  he  took  from  a  sack  which  contained 
tools,  a  file.  It  was  a  large  one,  such  as  are  used 
for  filing  plows  and  had  no  handle,  leaving  the 
sharp  end  of  the  iron  bare. 

He  threw  it  with  such  force  against  the  wall  near 
her  head  that  it  entered  the  wood  sufficiently  to  hold 


94  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

its  weight,  and  then  stepped  back  to  see  the  effect. 
She  started  a  little,  that  was  all,  but  kept  her  eyes 
fastened  upon  him.  Again  and  again  was  the  ex 
periment  repeated.  As  he  grew  more  expert,  he 
ventured  nearer  and  nearer,  until  the  disengaged 
end  nearly  touched  her  head.  But  she  never  moved 
a  muscle.  Fear  held  her  like  a  vise.  When  at  last, 
wearied  out  by  the  exertion,  he  was  obliged  to  stop 
and  turn  to  something  else,  she  could  not  have  told 
how  long  the  drama  had  lasted. 

All  day  long  had  it  continued.  A  fearful  snow 
storm  had  begun  about  noon,  and  there  was  no  fear 
of  being  disturbed,  as  all  were  glad  to  keep  close  to 
their  own  fire.  All  day  long  the  snow  continued 
to  fall,  as  if  it  would  never  stop;  and  all  day  and 
far  into  the  night  did  the  fearful  storm  within  con 
tinue  to  fall  on  the  head  of  the  defenseless  woman. 

Roxy,  trembling  with  fear,  crept  off  to  bed.  At 
length  tired  nature  gave  way  and  Abbie  slept  the 
dreamless  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  Again  we  re 
peat,  blessed  angel  of  sleep!  How  often  she  comes 
to  save  from  utter  madness ! 

Long  and  heavily  did  she  sleep.  When  she 
awoke,  her  husband  was  by  her  side.  She  shud 
dered  at  his  touch.  Oh!  why  could  she  not  have 
slept  forever?  Why  must  she  still  live  and  act  out 
this  terrible  drama?  Life  was  not  worth  the  pain 
it  cost.  Oh,  was  there  no  way  to  escape  from  this 
terrible  thralldom ! 

As  if  divining  her  thoughts,  her  husband  said, 
"Well,  what  do  you  calculate  to  do?" 


FURTHER     CRUELTIES.  95 

The  question  was  so  sudden  that  she  could  not 
answer.  What  could  she  do?  She  could  not  tell. 

"I  thought,"  he  continued  calmly,  "that  you 
might  conclude  to  go  home.  Of  course  we  cannot 
live  together  after  this.  You  can  take  what  little 
we  have  in  the  house.  It  was  all  yours  at  first,  so 
you  can  take  it." 

What  disinterested  kindness  (?)!  But  Abbie  did 
not  think  of  this.  She  was  waiting  to  hear  what 
he  would  say  of  the  child. 

"  Then  you  can  have  all  your  own  clothes,  and 
the  baby's,  for  I  have  concluded  to  let  you  keep  her 
for  me  for  a  short  time — say  until  she  is  a  year  old. 

Abbie's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  and  seemed  to 
fill  her  throat  to  suffocation.  This  was  what  she 
had  been  longing  to  hear,  for  she  had  determined 
to  escape  if  possible.  She  was  too  overjoyed  to 
move  or  speak,  and  he  continued: — 

"  If  you  want  to  go,  I  will  hitch  up  the  team  and 
take  you.  I  shall  keep  the  team,  of  course,  for,  al 
though  they  were  given  to  you,  I  think  they  belong 
to  me  now." 

Abbie  had  nothing  to  say  to  this.  If  he  would 
only  let  her  have  her  child  (in  her  ignorance  she 
thought  he  could  take  it  from  her  at  any  moment), 
peaceably,  she  would  ask  no  more.  Fearing  he 
might  change  his  mind,  she  rose  and  began  hurriedly 
to  dress. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  asked.  "If  so,  I  must  get 
up  and  harness  the  team." 

"Yes." 


96  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

That  single  word  was  all  she  could  speak.  She 
was  trembling  with  fear  and  excitement.  He  did 
not  seem  to  notice  this,  but  went  out  to  feed  the 
team. 

As  Abbie  glanced  from  the  window,  she  saw  that 
it  was  break  of  day  and  the  sky  was  clear.  But  she 
had  no  time  to  pause.  She  must  be  doing.  Now 
that  she  had  decided  to  go,  she  was  in  feverish  haste 
to  be  there.  When  she  was  at  home  by  the  dear 
old  hearth,  with  father,  mother,  brothers,  and  sisters 
around  her,  she  would  feel  safe,  but  not  before. 
Roxy  was  up  and  a  bright  fire  burned  in  the  stove. 
Abbie  sat  down  before  it  and  carefully  dressed  the 
babe,  imprinting  many  kisses  on  its  unconscious 
face  and  tiny  fists,  while  Roxy  looked  on  in  wonder. 
She  had  heard  what  had  been  said,  but  had  not 
uttered  a  word.  She  knew  in  a  vague  way  that  her 
sister  was  going  home,  but  could  not  comprehend 
the  full  meaning  of  the  words.  Could  her  sister? 
We  shall  see. 

Steve  came  in  smiling,  and  asked  her  if  she  was 
ready. 

"Not  quite,"  she  answered;  "I  haven't  packed  all 
of  baby's  clothes  yet." 

"Let  me  take  her  while  you  finish,"  he  said,  with 
an  amused  smile.  "  I  will  hold  her  carefully." 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  and  look  that 
surprised  and  terrified  the  young  mother.  What 
meant  that  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye,  that  amused 
look  on  his  face?  What  was  there  to  laugh  at,  at 


FURTHER  CRUELTIES.  9/ 

such  a  time  as  this,  when,  perhaps,he  was  taking  his 
child  in  his  arms  for  the  last  time  for  many  months, 
perhaps  forever?  Could  she  trust  him?  Would  he 
give  her  back  her  darling? 

She  hesitated,  then  turned  to  her  sister.  Seeing 
this,  he  quickly  stepped  between  them,  pushing 
Roxy  to  one  side,  and  roughly  took  the  child  from 
its  mother's  arms,  while  such  a  look  of  anger  over 
spread  his  face  that  Abbie's  heart  stood  still  with 
fear.  But,  remembering  that  she  was  still  in  his 
power,  and  dependent  on  him  for  help  to  escape, 
she  controlled  herself,  and  turned  to  complete  her 
preparations  for  departure. 

Rushford  sat  down  with  the  child,  and  watched 
her  as  she  passed  to  and  fro,  getting  one  article 
after  another  together.  She  had  not  noticed  him 
since  turning  away  from  that  look,  but  seemed 
absorbed  in  her  work. 

He  saw  her  close  the  trunk,  and  heard  the  click 
of  the  lock  as  it  turned  and  shot  home,  thus  secur 
ing  the  contents.  The  key  was  carefully  put  in  her 
pocket,  then  she  brought  out  baby's  trunk.  Its 
cloak  and  hood  were  taken  out  and  laid  on  the  bed 
beside  her  own.  Then  the  discarded  clothes  were 
put  in,  and  this  lock  also  shot  home  with  a  click. 

It  sounded  ominous,  and  he  turned  suddenly  and 
bowed  his  head  over  the  child,  prepared  to  put  a 
stop  to  this  farce.  He  had  not  expected  her  to  take 
up  with  his  offer,  but  when  she  did,  he  thought  he 
would  teach  her  a  lesson  she  would  not  soon 
7 


98  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

forget.  He  told  her  the  team  was  ready,  when 
they  were  standing  in  their  stalls,  munching  their 
oats,  without  a  thought  of  being  taken  out.  She 
had  believed  him,  but  it  was  time  she  should  know 
the  truth. 

His  busy  brain  suggested  a  plan  for  bringing  her 
to  terms  if  she  proved  determined.  As  she  ap 
proached  him,  equipped  for  her  ride,  with  baby's 
cloak  and  hood  in  her  hand,  she  was  surprised  to 
see  his  head  bowed  over  the  child  and  his  burly 
form  shaking  as  if  with  mighty  sobs,  and  to  hear 
his  voice,  seemingly  choked  with  emotion,  saying, 
"O  my  baby!" 

She  was  touched  at  the  sight,  never  doubting 
that  it  was  genuine  grief.  She  had  wondered  if  he 
could  let  it  go  from  him  without  one  endearing 
word,  without  one  kiss  on  its  velvet  cheek.  So 
she  waited  patiently  for  his  emotion  to  subside. 

"  O  my  baby ! "  he  said.  "  O  my  precious  darling  ! 
How  can  papa  live  without  you!  O  Abbie!  "he 
cried,  looking  up  into  her  face  for  the  first  time.  To 
her  surprise  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  perfectly 
dry,  though  he  had  appeared  to  be  shedding  oceans 
of  tears,  while  his  face  wore  a  comical  look  of  mock 
anguish.)  "  O  Abbie  !  how  can  I  let  her  go?  Why 
will  you  take  her  away  from  her  poor  father?" 

Abbie  grew  uneasy  as  she  looked  into  his  eyes, 
and  made  an  attempt  to  take  the  child,  but  he  held 
her  fast. 

"Oh,  give  her  to  me,. please!"  cried  Abbie,  a 
dreadful  fear  seizing  her  heart. 


FURTHER   CRUELTIES.  99 

"No,"  he  said,  straightening  up,  and  assuming  a 
look  of  firmness.  "No,  you  shall  not  take  her 
from  me.  I  love  my  child  too  well  to  part  with 
her.  If  you  do  not,  you  can  go,  but  she  stays  with 
me." 

Abbie  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  She  could 
neither  move  nor  speak.  She  turned  deadly  pale, 
but  her  husband  was  calm  and  collected.  He  was 
getting  used  to  these  scared  looks,  but,  fearing  she 
might  fall,  he  drew  a  chair  near  him,  and  told  her 
to  sit  down.  She  obeyed  mechanically.  A  dread 
faintness  came  over  her.  She  wondered  if  she  was 
going  to  faint.  But  thoughts  of  her  child  came  to 
her,  and,  making  a  mighty  effort  to  calm  herself, 
she  held  out  her  arms,  mutely,  for  the  child. 

"  Not  just  yet,"  he  said,  fastening  his  cold,  gleam 
ing  eyes  on  her  face  pitilessly.  "  I  wish  to  talk  to 
you  first.  Before  I  trust  my  precious  babe  with 
you,  you  must  promise  to  be  very  tender  with  her." 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  she.  "I  promise  with  all  my 
heart.  Oh,  give  her  to  me!"  again  holding  out  her 
arms  appealingly. 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,"  he  said,  still  trying  to  hold 
her  with  his  baleful  eyes.  "Not  quite  so  fast.  Do 
you  know  what  you  are  about  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  she  replied  more  firmly,  for  she 
had  seemed  to  hear  her  mother's  voice  saying, 
"Trust  in  God,  my  child,"  and  the  thought  gave 
her  new  strength.  She  no  longer  feared  and  trem 
bled,  but  there  came  into  her  heart  a  calm  assur- 


IOO  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

ance  of  faith  that  God  would  indeed  be  a  present 
help  in  time  of  need. 

He  noticed  her  changed  manner,  and,  fearing  he 
was  again  losing  his  power,  he  continued,  in  more 
persuasive  tones:  "  You  think  you  do  ?  Well,  I 
think  you  do  not.  You  propose  to  take  my  child 
under  the  roof  of  the  man  I  hate  with  a  terrible 
hatred,  and  who,  I  believe,  hates  me.  You  must 
promise  not  to  let  him  teach  my  child  to  hate  me." 

Abbie  thought  how  much  cause  her  father  had 
to  hate  him,  but,  knowing  him  too  well  to  think  he 
would  do  such  a  thing,  readily  gave  her  promise. 

"Now, "said  he,  "you  must  promise  to  let  me 
have  her  whenever  I  call  for  her." 

This  was  a  trying  moment  for  poor  Abbie.  She 
was  flying  from  the  man  who  had  nearly  taken  the 
life  of  her  child,  yet  she  must  give  her  promise  to 
surrender  it  on  demand.  She  believed  that  he  could 
take  it  at  any  time  by  the  laws  of  the  land.  .All  she 
could  do  was  to  "trust  in  God"  for  the  rest,  after 
getting  possession  of  the  babe. 

"I  promise,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  ac  the  babe, 
which  was  quietly  sleeping,  all  unconscious  of  the 
drama  that  was  being  played  over  it  or  of  the  part 
it  played. 

He  leaned  over  it  in  mock  tenderness,  saying: 
"O  my  babe,  my  sweet,  precious  babe!  How  can  I 
let  you  go!"  Then,  springing  up  excitedly,  he 
exclaimed:  "I  cannot,  I  will  not  let  her  got 


FURTHER    CRUELTIES.  IOI 

Either  you  must  stay  with  me  or  leave  your  child." 
Abbie's  face  had  grown  cold  and  hard.  She 
knew  that  he  had  been  playing  with  her  feelings, 
and  her  heart  swelled  with  indignation.  Springing 
up,  she  caught  his  arm,  and  said,  in  a  voice  low  and 
trembling:  "This  farce  must  stop.  Give  me  the 
babe." 

He  looked  in  her  face  a  moment,  and,  seeing 
something  he  could  not  understand,  handed  her  the 
child.  As  Abbietook  the  child,  a  feeling  of  exulta 
tion  came  over  her.  But  when  she  remembered 
that  she  was  still  in  his  power,  and  that,  although 
she  was  determined  to  escape,  she  could  not  do  so 
without  his  aid  unless  she  could  send  word  to  her 
friends — and  what  might  not  happen  before  she  could 
do  this ! — she  sat  down  with  the  child  in  her  arms  and 
burst  into  tears. 

But  we  must  leave  them  for  a  few  moments  and 
follow  the  footsteps  of  Roxy,  who,  at  Steve's  first 
refusal  to  deliver  the  child  to  its  mother,  had  quietly 
left  the  room,  unnoticed  by  either  of  its  occupants. 


CHAPTER     IX. 

ABBIE   RESCUED    FROM    DANGER. 

soon  as  Roxy  found  herself  outside  the 
door,  she  flew  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry 
her  toward  home.  But  the  snow  was  deep, 
there  was  no  road,  the  air  was  bitter  cold,  and  be 
fore  she  had  accomplished  half  the  distance,  she 
was  almost  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue.  But  she 
toiled  bravely  on,  in  spite  of  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
until  she  reached  the  door,  which  she  opened  and 
rushed  wildly  in,  crying,  "O  father,  come  quick!" 

Mr.  Saunders  sat  by  the  fire  with  his  children 
around  him,  and  one  little  one  upon  his  knee.  Mrs. 
Saunders  was  busy  about  her  household  duties. 
Neither  dreamed  of  danger  until  Roxy's  sudden 
appearance  startled  them.  All  was  instantly  con 
fusion. 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?"  cried  Mrs.  Saun 
ders.  "Why  are  you  so  frightened?  What  has 
happened?" 

Roxy,  entirely  overcome  by  fright  and  fatigue, 
had  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  and,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  began  weeping  violently. 
It  was  some  time  before  she  could  control  herself 
sufficiently  to  answer  them  at  all,  and  even  then  she 
(102) 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  IO3 

was  too  excited  to  give  them  a  clear  understanding 
of  the  matter.  But  they  gathered  this  at  last,  that 
"Steve  was  acting  up  so  awful  they  could  not  live 
with  him.  He  wouldn't  let  Abbie  have  the  baby. 
He  had  'most  killed  her  and  father  must  come 
quick!" 

Consternation  seized  them  both  at  this  intelli 
gence.  Abbie  was  in  danger,  and  they  must  rescue 
her  at  all  hazards.  But  how  was  the  question. 
The  boys  had  all  gone  to  the  woods  for  their  day's 
work  and  Mr.  Saunders  was  alone.  Could  he,  in 
his  age  and  infirmity,  hope  to  cope  with  the  strong, 
burly  form  of  Steve,  who,  he  feared,  by  his  daugh 
ter's  story,  was  furious?  He  might  even  now  be 
killing  her.  He  sprang  up  at  the  thought  and 
began  hurriedly  to  don  his  outdoor  garments,  when 
his  wife  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Do  not  detain  me,"  he  said.  "I  must  go  to 
her." 

"I  would  not  detain  you,  but  you  must  not  go 
alone." 

"But  how  can  it  be  avoided?  Help  she  must 
have  immediately,  and  the  boys  are  all  away.  No; 
I  must  go  alone." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  started  for  the 
door.  But  Mrs.  Saunders  feared  the  consequences 
should  he  go  alone,  and  her  busy  brain  suggested 
a  plan  ere  he  reached  it. 

"Go  for  Mr.  Deering,"  she  said.  "He  will  go 
with  you,  and  you  may  need  his  help." 


IO4  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"So  I  will,"  he  replied  as  he  closed  the  door  after 
him. 

Roxy  had  become  quiet  by  this  time,  and  Mrs. 
Saunders,  fearing  that  Steve  might  notice  her  ab 
sence  and  mistrust  where  she  had  gone,  persuaded 
her  to  return,  and,  if  possible,  not  let  him  know  that 
she  had  been  away.  Being  assured  that  her  father 
would  soon  be  there,  she  returned  and  quietly  en 
tered  the  room. 

Abbie  sat  weeping,  with  her  babe  in  her  arms, 
while  Steve  was  laying  down  rules  by  which  she 
was  to  be  guided  in  the  future.  He  had  never  in 
tended  to  allow  her  to  leave  the  house,  had  played 
his  part  merely  for  pleasure,  and  to  see  how  far  she 
would  go,  that  he  might  have  something  to  taunt 
her  with. 

He  little  guessed  the  power  of  will  that  lay  in 
that  timid,  shrinking  heart.  He  could  no  more 
hold  her  now  than  he  could  stop  the  whirlwind  in 
its  course.  She  was  even  then  determining,  with 
her  sister's  help,  to  effect  her  escape.  Nor  did  he 
guess  how  near  her  escape  was. 

He  had  grown  secure  in  his  mind,  as  he  saw 
her  weeping  (she  saw  the  folly  of  trying  to  escape 
him,  he  thought),  and  was  laying  down  his  rules 
with  great  emphasis,  when  footsteps  were  heard 
approaching  the  house.  Roxy  gave  a  sigh  of  re 
lief.  Steve  had  just  time  to  assume  a  careless  air, 
when  Mr.  Saunders  entered,  followed  by  Mr.  Deer- 
ing. 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  10$ 

As  Abbie  caught  sight  of  her  father,  her  heart 
gave  a  great  bound,  then  seemed  to  stand  still  with 
the  excess  of  her  joy.  "Saved,  saved  at  last!"  she 
cried,  stretching  out  her  arms  appealingly  toward 
him.  She  did  not  heed  the  presence  of  Mr.  Deer- 
ing,  but  thought  only  of  safety  for  herself  and  babe. 

Mr.  Saunders  stood  a  moment,  taking  in  the  sit 
uation,  then,  in  stern  tones,  he  demanded,  "What 
does  this  mean?" 

Abbie  glanced  hurriedly  at  her  husband.  He 
was  a  picture  of  cowardly  fear.  Every  vestige  of 
color  had  left  his  face,  and  his  hands  hung  listlessly 
by  his  sides,  while  he  stared  at  Abbie  with  a  help 
less,  despairing  look.  As  he  caught  her  eye,  he 
tried  to  hold  it  with  his  own,  but  she  turned  reso 
lutely  away. 

Mr.  Saunders  waited  some  moments  for  a  reply, 
then,  seating  himself  near  Abbie,  he  gently  asked 
her  to  tell  her  story.  Thus  admonished,  she  began 
to  recite  what  we  already  know. 

She  had  not  proceeded  far  before  she  was  inter 
rupted  by  her  husband  pronouncing  the  single 
word,  "  Abbie!  "  Never,  to  her  dying  day,  will  she 
forget  the  sound  of  that  voice.  Anger,  fear, 
entreaty,  and  despair  were  strangely  blended  in  one 
She  glanced  hurriedly  at  him,  then  continued  her 
narrative  to  the  end. 

Once  more  she  heard  his  voice  saying,  "Abbie, 
beware!"  but  she  did  not  heed  him,  and  continued 
her  story,  never  faltering,  until  she  had  told  the 


IO6  AHBIE    SAUNDERS. 

whole  story.  Then  she  cried,  with  touching-  ear 
nestness,  "And  you  will  save  me,  will  you  not,  O 
my  father?  " 

Mr.  Saunders  turned  to  Mr.  Deering  (who  had 
sat  during  the  recital  carelessly  tipped  back  in  his 
chair,  his  legs  crossed,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  seem 
ingly  intent  on  watching  the  clouds  of  smoke  as 
they  curled  upward  to  the  ceiling,  but  listening 
carefully  to  every  word),  saying:  "  You  hear,  Mr. 
Deering?  You  will  help  me  take  her?" 

Deering  straightened  back  farther  in  his  chair, 
and,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  breeches  pockets, 
slowly  said,  as  he  watched  Steve  intently:  "She 
don't  need  no  help.  She  can  go  where  she  pleases. 
The  law  will  protect  her." 

A  sigh  of  relief  escaped  Abbie's  lips,  then  a 
sudden  fear  that  that  same  law  which  would  protect 
her  in  her  freedom  might  snatch  from  her  arms  her 
darling  child,  took  possession  of  her. 

"But  the  babe?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "Can  he 
take  it  from  me  ?  " 

"  No,  he  cannot  take  it  under  one  year,  in  this 
State,  I  believe.  In  some  it  is  two  years,  but  not 
less  than  one  in  any  State.  And  you  may  be  able 
to  get  the  sole  control  of  her.  In  a  case  like  this, 
where  the  father  has  proved  himself  unfit  to  care 
for  it,  I  think  you  will  have  no  trouble  in  gaining 
it." 

Rushford  sat  quietly  listening  to  what  was  said. 
He  felt  the  coils  drawing  closer  around  him.  Ev- 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  IO/ 

ery  particle  of  hope  departed,  and  left  him  a  verita 
ble  coward.  He  did  not  attempt  to  deny  one  word 
of  her  story.  He  knew  that  half  had  not  been  told. 
The  mention  of  the  law  did  not  tend  to  make  him 
less  uneasy. 

He  did  not  speak  until  Mr.  Saunders  excitedly 
asked  the  rest  to  leave  the  room,  as  he  wished  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Deering  alone.  All  rose  to  obey, 
when  Rushford,  with  a  withering  look  at  Mr. 
Saunders,  said : — 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  out  than  turn  a  sick 
woman  and  her  babe  out  in  the  snow." 

Mr.  Saunders  saw  his  blunder,  and  quickly 
stepped  outside,  followed  by  Deering.  Abbie  cast 
a  scornful  look  at  Rushford.  So  he  had  at  last 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  a  sick  woman, 
and  entitled  to  some  consideration.  Why  had  he 
not  thought  of  that  before? 

As  the  door  closed,  he  came  eagerly  forward, 
and  began  to  plead  with  her  to  forgive  and  be 
friend  him  now.  The  tables  had  been  completely 
turned.  He  felt  that  this  was  his  only  chance,  and 
he  pleaded  eloquently  for  forgiveness. 

He  had  not  long  to  plead,  however,  for  the  door 
soon  opened,  and  Deering  came  in.  Drawing 
Rushford  to  one  side,  he  spoke  a  few  words  to  him, 
then,  turning  to  Abbie,  he  explained  that  her 
father  had  gone  to  order  a  conveyance  for  her, 
while  he  would  proceed  immediately  to  the  village 
and  procure  the  arrest  of  Rushford,  who  stood  by, 
pale  with  excitement,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 


IO8  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

Seeing  his  indecision,  Deering  advised  him  to 
"cut  stick  and  clear  out"  as  soon  as  possible. 

"But  they  can't  arrest  me,"  he  said;  "I  have  done 
nothing  to  condemn  me." 

Deering  looked  at  him  with  that  strange,  amused 
smile  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  trying  to  determine 
if  he  was  in  earnest,  then  said:  "Nothing?  You 
have  done  nothing?  Don't  you  know  that  story 
Mrs.  Rushford  told  this  morning,  and  which  she 
has  a  witness  to  in  that  girl  Roxy,  if  told  in  court 
would  jug  you  tighter  than  whisky  ever  was 
jugged?" 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  how  it  can,"  said  he 
incredulously.  The  whole  thing  had  been  a  mere 
farce  to  him,  a  mere  play.  He  did  not  remember 
what  he  had  done,  only  that  he  had  broken  no 
bones,  had  taken  no  lives. 

"  Don't  see  how  it  can?"  asked  Deering,  laugh 
ing  heartily.  "Well,  you  are  the  dullest  one  I've 
seen  lately.  I  thought  your  wife  was  innocent 
enough,  but  you  cap  the  climax,"  and  he  laughed 
again. 

An  angry  flush  overspread  Rushford's  face,  and 
he  said  sulkily:  "I  can't  see  what  you  mean. 
What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ?  Can't  you  explain 
yourself?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  explain  myself  easy  enough,  I 
guess,  so  that  even  you  can  understand  me!" 

Striking  an  attitude,  opening  one  hand  and  lay 
ing  the  forefinger  of  the  other  on  it,  and  looking  at 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  IOQ 

him  in  an  aggravating  way,  that  tempted  Rushford 
to  strike  him,  he  continued:— 

"Now,  don't  you  remember  about  your  threaten 
ing  your  wife  with  death,  about  your  taking  down 
that  file,  which  would  be  termed  an  instrument  of 
death  in  such  a  case,  of  your  throwing  it  into  the 
logs  near  your  wife's  head  (I  know  you  did  that, 
for  I  can  count  more  than  twenty  marks  in  the 
logs),  to  say  nothing  of  your  stuffing  paper  into 
the  baby's  mouth  ?  It  might  have  choked  her  to 
death,  if  it  was  the  Bible.  Now,  if  she  tells  that 
story  in  court,  and  Roxy  swears  to  it,  I  wouldn't 
give  much  for  your  freedom  for  a  while.  Besides, 
you'll  sleep  in  jail  to-night,  any  way,  if  you  don't 
clear  out,  and  that  mighty  quick.  Saunders  is 
mad,  and  he  won't  rest  until  you  are  got  rid  of." 

The  look  of  anger  in  Rushford's  face  gradually 
changed  to  one  of  alarm  as  Deering  proceeded, 
and  when  he  ceased  speaking,  it  presented  that 
cowardly  look  of  abject  terror  which  it  had  worn 
once  before  that  day.  He  seemed  to  be  undecided 
how  to  act,  and  Deering  once  more  urged  him  to 
fly  at  once. 

At  last  he  seemed  to  make  a  decision,  and,  has 
tily  gathering  some  of  his  clothes  together,  he 
thrust  them  into  a  valise  and  left  the  room;  then, 
returning,  he  clasped  Abbie's  hands  and  bade  her 
good-by.  As  she  shook  his  hand,  she  slipped 
into  it  a  few  dollars — all  she  had.  He  looked  up 
with  a  grateful  smile  and  left  the  room. 


I  IO  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

Abbie  watched  him  out  of  sight,  then  the  tears 
fell  thick  and  fast.  There  was  a  strange  tumult  in 
her  heart.  When  she  thought  of  her  own  con 
dition,  a  feeling  of  thankfulness  prevailed.  She 
felt  that  she  could  not  live  with  him  longer,  but 
farther  than  this  she  had  not  calculated.  She  had 
no  feelings  of  revenge  against  him,  and  would  not 
have  made  an  effort  to  punish  him.  To  know  that 
he  was  going  out  into  the  world,  a  fugitive  from 
justice,  seemed  so  terrible  that  she  could  but  pity 
him.  The  sleigh  soon  arrived,  and  she  was  taken 
home.  Home!  how  sweet  the  word  sounded  to 
her!  Mrs.  Saunders  met  her  at  the  door  with  tears 
and  a  hearty  welcome.  Her  little  brothers  and 
sisters  crowded  around  her,  welcoming  her  with 
warm  kisses,  then  clamored  to  see  the  baby. 

With  pride  the  mother  exhibited  her  darling, 
and  received  their  simple  words  of  admiration. 
But  as  she  gazed  upon  her  darling's  face,  a  dread 
ful  fear  tugged  at  her  heart.  She  might  be  forced 
to  give  her  up  at  the  end  of  a  year.  One  short 
year!  How  very  short  it  seemed!  Could  she 
have  known  that  one  short  month  would  not  pass 
ere  her  child  would  be  ruthlessly  torn  from  her 
grasp,  how  sweet  one  year's  respite  would  have 
seemed! 

Mr.  Saunders  soon  returned  with  a  weary  look, 
saying  that  Steve  had  disappeared,  and  he  had  re 
quested  the  sheriff  not  to  pursue  him. 

"I  thought  as  I  was  returning  home,"  said  he, 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  I  I  I 

"  of  the  process  that  must  be  gone  through  with  if 
he  was  arrested,  of  the  publicity  into  which  it 
would  bring  our  family,  and  I  must  say  I  was  glad 
he  was  gone.  Deering  thinks  he  has  scared  him 
until  he  will  not  dare  to  show  his  face  here  again. 
If  he  will  only  stay  away,  it  is  all  I  ask." 

Abbie  felt  much  relieved.  She  too  had  dreaded 
the  publicity  of  a  trial  in  court,  and  she  was  well 
pleased  with  her  father's  decision. 

The  young  men  soon  returned  from  their  work 
and  were  surprised  and  pleased  to  see  Abbie  at 
home  once  more. 

Raz  caught  up  the  baby,  kissed  it,  and  wondered 
how  it  would  seem  to  be  called  uncle;  then,  notic 
ing  Abbie's  sad  face,  asked  her  what  was  the  mat 
ter.  Before  this  question  could  be  answered,  Will 
asked:  "  Where  have  you  left  Steve?  I  don't  see 
him." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  All  eyes  were 
turned  toward  Abbie,  who  trembled  violently,  while 
great  tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  Will's  manner  of 
badinage  changed  to  one  of  alarm,  and  he  turned 
to  his  mother  for  an  explanation. 

"I  hope  you  will  never  see  him  here  again,"  she 
said.  "  He  has  forfeited  all  claims  to  respect,  and 
your  sister  does  not  wish  to  see  him  again." 

"How?  Why?  What  has  he  been  doing?" 
asked  both  boys  in  a  breath. 

She  explained  in  as  few  words  as  possible  what 
she  knew  of  the  circumstances,  adding: — 


112  ABBIK    SAUNDERS. 

"  I  myself  do  not  thoroughly  understand  it. 
Abbie  will,  no  doubt,  tell  us  all  about  it  this  even 
ing,  but  as  supper  is  ready  now,  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it  at  present." 

When  they  were  gathered  around  the  fire  in  the 
evening,  Abbie  told  her  story.  Great  was  the  ex 
citement  of  all  as  she  finished.  The  brothers  de 
clared  that  he  should  not  escape.  They  would 
follow  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  but  he  should 
be  punished.  Then  Mr.  Saunders  explained  what 
he  had  done,  to  which  they  were  much  opposed. 

"What!"  they  cried  with  one  accord,  "shall  he 
treat  our  sister  in  this  manner,  and  then  be  allowed 
to  go  away  unmolested? — No,  this  is  too  much. 
He  must  be  punished." 

"But  you  forget!  In  order  to  punish  him  we 
must  become  the  town  talk,  and  your  sister  must 
be  dragged  before  a  courtroom,  full  of  staring  peo 
ple,  and  swear  to  and  repeat  this  story,  which  it 
pains  her  so  much  to  tell  to  us.  So  you  see  by  at 
tempting  to  punish  him,  you  must  give  her  more 
pain,  of  which  I  judge  she  has  had  enough.  No, 
my  sons,  if  he  has  gone,  as  I  hope  and  trust  he  has, 
let  him  go." 

Abbie  joined  her  pleadings  with  his,  and  they  at 
last  reluctantly  consented. 

"But  are  you  sure  he  has  gone?"  asked  Raz. 
"  May  he  not  be  hiding  somewhere  near  by?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Saunders,  "the  officer  followed 
him  some  distance.  He  has  taken  to  the  woods, 


ABBIE    RESCUED    FROM    DANGER.  I  1 3 

and  will,  no  doubt,  be  many  miles  away  before 
morning." 

"He  may  have  done  this  to  throw  you  off  your 
guard.  I  do  not  believe  he  will  leave  us  alone. 
He  is  too  cruel  and  revengeful.  We  shall  have 
trouble  with  him  yet." 

"I  hope  not.  Mr.  Deering  thinks  he  will  trouble 
us  no  more.  He  went  with  me  to  the  house,  and 
was  a  great  help  to  me.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
him,  I  should  have  had  trouble  to  get  Abbie  away. 
He  understood  the  law  better  than  I,  and  Steve 
saw  there  was  no  use  to  say  anything.  He  stayed 
with  her  and  saw  Steve  start  but  could  not  prevent 
him.  He  says  he  was  about  as  scared  a  fellow  as 
he  ever  saw,  and  will  get  as  far  away  as  possible 
before  he  stops." 

"Well,  maybe  it's  all  right,  but  he  isn't  to  be 
trusted.  It  won't  be  well  for  him  to  show  himself 
around  here,  though,"  added  Raz,  as  he  strode 
away  to  his  room. 

Soon  all  retired,  and  midnight  stillness  reigned 
around. 

Here  we  must  take  leave  of  them,  and  follow  the 
footsteps  of  Steven  Rushford. 


CHAPTER  X. 

RUSHFORD'S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN. 

T  was  with  a  strange  commingling  of  emo 
tion  that  he  left  the  house  and  commenced 
his  journey.  A  few  moments  before  he  had 
not  thought  of  such  a  thing;  but  his  conduct  for 
the  last  few  days,  when  held  up  before  his  mind's 
eye  by  Mr.  Deering,  took  on  a  form  of  reality 
which  startled  him.  What  had  before  looked  to 
him  like  a  mere  farce  would,  when  told  to  others, 
take  the  form  of  real  crime,  and  he  saw  the  ne 
cessity  of  eluding  the  consequences  if  possible. 

He  saw  that  there  was  no  way  to  do  this  but  by 
immediate  flight.  So  great  had  been  his  haste  he 
had  nearly  forgotten  to  speak  to  Abbie.  He  could 
not  realize  his  position.  It  seemed  rather  to  be 
some  fitful  dream  than  reality.  Then,  as  he 
thought  of  the  charge  that  would  be  brought 
against  him,  and  what  the  consequences  might  be, 
his  heart  quaked  with  fear,  and  he  fled  in  wild 
haste  down  the  road  and  into  the  woods. 

Remembering  the  caution  Deering  had  given 
him,  he  avoided  the  traveled  road,  taking  the  most 
unfrequented  bypaths,  and  pressing  forward  with 
(H4) 


RUSHFORD  S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.    I  I  5 

all  his  might.  On,  on  he  went,  scarcely  pausing  to 
take  breath. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  found  himself  in  a  deep 
ravine,  completely  sheltered  from  view,  but  so  near 
the  road  that,  though  no  one  could  see  him,  he 
could  see  and  hear  all  who  passed.  Here  he  sat 
down  to  rest  his  weary  limbs  and  think  what  course 
to  pursue.  Heretofore  he  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  to  put  as  great  a  distance  as  possible  between 
himself  and  danger. 

But  he  had  eaten  nothing  that  day,  and  the 
gnawings  of  hunger  nearly  unmanned  him.  The 
cold,  too,  was  intense.  He  could  not  remain  out 
all  night.  What  should  he  do?  As  he  realized 
his  desolate  condition,  his  thoughts  flew  back  to 
Abbie. 

He  thought  of  his  own  cruel  behavior;  of  her 
patient  endurance;  how  he  had  tried  to  drive  her 
to  an  attempt  to  leave  him,  that  he  might  have 
more  with  which  to  taunt  her;  how  he  had  at  last 
been  driven  to  that  dreadful  farce  by  which  he 
meant  to  clinch  his  power  over  her  forever,  but  the 
results  of  which  had  been  so  disastrous  to  himself; 
of  his  flight  from  the  house  where  he  had  been 
wont  to  rule;  of  that  last  look  of  his  injured  wife, 
in  which  was  blended  such  a  world  of  pity;  of  the 
money  she  had  placed  in  his  hands,  which  she  had 
earned  by  her  needle  while  unable  to  get  out,  and 
was  hoarding  so  carefully. 

She  had  thought  of  his  comfort  before  her  own 


Il6  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

even  then.  Now  that  he  seemed  parted  from  her 
forever,  he  remembered  her  good  qualities  with  re 
gret.  Yet,  mingled  with  this  feeling,  was  one  of  re 
gret  that  she  had  escaped  his  power.  The  thought 
that  she  was  safe  and  happy  with  her  friends, 
warmed  and  fed,  while  he  sat  shivering  here  like  a 
culprit,  with  neither  food  nor  fire,  was  more  than  his 
nature  could  bear. 

A  terrible  thirst  for  revenge  came  over  him.  He 
clinched  his  fists  and  ground  his  teeth,  while  a  look 
of  malignity  distorted  his  features.  He  strode  out 
boldly  into  the  highway,  and  began  to  retrace  his 
steps.  The  sun  was  just  sinking  in  the  west,  and 
the  dark  shadows  began  to  creep  into  the  recesses 
of  the  woods,  growing  deeper  and  deeper,  but  he 
did  not  heed  them. 

All  fear  of  detection  seemed  to  have  left  him. 
Soon  a  bright  light  gleamed  out  before  him.  It 
came  from  the  window  of  a  small  cabin  near  the 
road.  He  recognized  the  place,  and,  walking  boldly 
up  to  the  door,  he  knocked  and  was  admitted. 
The  cabin  was  occupied  by  a  widow  and  her  two 
daughters.  They  greeted  him  cordially.  He  told 
them  he  had  been  belated,  and,  as  he  was  very 
hungry  and  had  a  good  distance  to  walk,  he  would 
like  a  bite  to  eat. 

The  kind-hearted  woman  set  before  him  a  sub 
stantial  meal,  of  which  he  ate  heartily,  and  then  re 
sumed  his  journey,  where  we  will  leave  him  for  a 
while,  as  we  visit  with  our  reader  the  home  of  Mr. 
Deering. 


RUSHFORD'S  DEPARTI/RE  AND  RETURN.      117 

It  is  a  small  frame  house,  situated  about  one- 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  Mr.  Saunders'  residence,  and 
within  plain  view  from  their  door. 

On  approaching  it,  near  the  hour  of  ten,  we  per 
ceive  a  light  still  streaming  from  a  window  in  the 
sitting  room.  We  enter,  and  find  the  room  de 
serted  by  all  except  Mr.  Deering,  who  sits  tipped 
back  in  his  chair — a  position  he  invariably  assumes 
upon  sitting  down — his  hands  crossed  idly  on  his 
breast,  his  face  having  an  absorbed  expression,  as 
he  gazes  through  the  grate  at  the  glowing  coals, 
and  puffs  fitfully  at  the  pipe  which  he  holds  be 
tween  his  lips.  Occasionally  he  smiles  slightly — 
that  strange,  odd  smile  he  is  wont  to  wear  when 
amused.  He  was,  no  doubt,  thinking  of  the  events 
of  the  morning,  which  to  him  had  been  highly 
amusing. 

His  early  life  had  been  spent  in  roving  over  the 
country.  He  led  for  some  years  the  life  of  a 
scout,  and  had  seen  some  lively  times,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it,  and  this  quiet,  humdrum  life  was  get 
ting  tedious.  The  events  of  the  morning  promised 
to  break  its  monotony,  and  so  could  not  fail  to  give 
him  some  pleasure. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  to  himself,  "they  will  come 
together  again,  and  kiss,  and  make  up,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  I  like  to  see  a  little  fun  out  of  it 
first.  This  life  is  so  unbearably  dull!  I've  almost 
a  mind  to  do  something  terrible  myself,  just  to 
raise  a  breeze,  though  I  don't  exactly  approve  of 


Il8  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

playing  with  women  and  babies  as  that  fellow 
Rushford  has  been  doing.  What  a  brute  the  man 
must  be!  She'll  be  a  fool  if  she  does  go  back. 
And  Saunders, "  he  continued,  "I  was  surprised  to 
hear  him  say  he  should  not  have  him  followed. 
If  that  was  my  girl,  now,  I'd  follow  him  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  before  he  should  escape.  I  wonder 
where  the  coward  is  now?  Far  enough  away  from 
here,  I  reckon,  and  won't  want  to  come  back  in  a 
hurry,  either.  Didn't  I  scare  him  though?"  and 
he  laughed  aloud.  He'll  not  show  his  face  here 
again." 

But  in  this  he  was  mistaken,  for  scarcely  had  the 
last  words  left  his  lips  when  he  heard  a  quick, 
energetic  knock  on  the  door.  Rising  hastily,  he 
opened  it  and  peered  out  into  the  darkness.  To 
his  surprise,  he  was  confronted  by  the  tall,  burly 
form  of  Rushford,  who  did  not  stop  to  be  invited 
in,  but  stalked  boldly  into  the  room. 

"To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  visit?"  asked 
Deering,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  from  his  sur 
prise  sufficiently  to  speak.  "I  supposed  you  were 
far  enough  away  from  here  by  this  time,  and  more 
likely  to  go  farther  than  to  return." 

"In  that  you  were  mistaken,"  replied  Rushford, 
trying  to  assume  a  look  of  bravery  which  he  was 
far  from  feeling,  as  he  gazed  questioningly  into  the 
face  of  Mr.  Deering. 

"So  I  see,"  said  Deering,  seeming  scarcely  to 
know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  not  with  his  visitor. 


RUSHFORD'S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.   119 

"But  again  I  ask,  to  what  am  I  indebted  for  this 
visit?" 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  answer  to  make,"  said 
Rushford,  his  face  assuming  a  half-defiant,  half- 
troubled  look.  "  You  were  at  the  house  this  morn 
ing,  and  heard  the  reasons  my  wife  gave  for  going 
away,  and  it  was  by  your  advice  that  I  left.  You 
was  my  friend  then;  now  I  want  to  know  if  you 
will  be  my  friend  still." 

He  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Deering, 
who  looked  very  much  annoyed.  To  be  sure,  he 
had  helped  him  away,  but  his  sympathies  had  been 
with  the  wife,  and  he  did  not  relish  being  called  a 
friend  by  one  who  had  taken  the  course  Rushford 
had.  He  motioned  Rushford  to  a  chair,  and,  taking 
one  himself,  said: — 

"  I  don't  know  as  what  I  did  for  you  gives  you  a 
right  to  call  me  a  friend.  I'm  sure  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  your  conduct  at  all." 

"  But  you  helped  me  away,"  persisted  Rushford. 
"  I  should  not  have  gone  a  step  if  it  had  not  been 
for  you." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  advised  you  to  go,  because,  you 
see,  I  couldn't  stand  by  and  see  a  man  nabbed,  and 
say  nothing.  But  if  it  had  been  my  girl  you  had 
treated  so,  I'll  be  bound  you  wouldn't  escape." 

"  I  was  a  brute  with  her,  I  know,"  said  Rushford 
penitently,  for  he  saw  that  that  character  would  he 
the  best  he  could  assume. 

He  had  started  back  with  the  determination  to 


I2O  AB15IE    SAUNDERS. 

be  avenged  on  old  Saunders,  as  he  called  him,  but 
as  he  drew  nearer  the  spot,  his  courage  failed 
him.  He  thought  if  he  could  get  someone  to 
stand  by  him,  he  would  be  all  right.  But  who 
could  he  get?  He  thought  of  Deering  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  to  try  him.  He  was  glad  to  find 
him  up,  and  at  once  determined  to  make  a  friend 
of  him  if  possible. 

"But  I  am  sorry,  and  want  to  make  up  with  her," 
he  continued. 

"But  do  you  think  she  will  make  up  with  you?" 
asked  Deering. 

"I  hope  so.  I  think  if  I  can  get  a  chance  to  talk 
with  her,  I  can  make  it  all  right.  Why,"  he  added, 
enthusiastically,  "  she  is  one  of  the  quietest  little 
women  in  the  world.  She  would  do  anything 
rather  than  oppose  me." 

"  Then  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
prized  her  more." 

"  So  I  ought,  and  if  you  will  help  me  get  her 
back,  I  promise  to  treat  her  well." 

An  angry  flush  overspread  the  face  of  Deering, 
and  he  said:  "  Now  look  here,  Rushford,  if  you 
think  I  am  going  to  get  the  whole  neighborhood 
down  on  me  by  helping  you  do  your  brutish  work, 
you  are  mistaken.  I  ain't  your  man.  If  you  mean 
what  you  say  about  treating  the  girl  well,  and  she 
will  listen  to  you,  all  right.  But  I  shan't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it." 

"Of  course  I  don't  expect  you  to  have  anything 


RUSHFORD S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.    121 

to  do  with  it,"  said  Rushford.  "All  I  want  is  a 
chance  to  hide,  and  a  place  to  hide,  until  I  get  a 
chance  to  see  her  alone.  Then,  if  she  won't  listen, 
it's  all  right.  Just  let  me  stay  here,  and  I  promise 
it  will  be  all  right." 

"But  Saunders  will  be  after  you  if  he  sees  you 
here,"  objected  Deering. 

"  I  suppose  he's  after  me  now,  only  I  guess  he's 
off  the  track,"  said  Rushford  laughing. 

"  No,  he  ain't.  When  he  found  you  had  cut 
sticks  and  run  for  it,  he  told  the  officer  to  let  you 
go,  if  you  would  only  stay  away.  I  told  him  you 
would  do  that  fast  enough,  so  he  has  gone  home 
contented,  believing  you  to  be  far  away." 

Rushford  was  silent  and  thoughtful  for  some 
time.  He  was  much  surprised  at  the  leniency  of 
Mr.  Saunders,  and  relieved  to  find  that  he  was  not 
pursued.  He  grew  self-possessed  and  calm,  and 
determined  to  push  through  this  trouble  and  secure 
Abbie  again. 

Turning  once  more  to  Deering,  he  said,  "At 
least,  you  will  let  me  stay  here  to-night?" 

Deering  did  not  refuse,  but  showed  him  to  a 
room,  and  then  retired  himself. 

Thus  it  happened  that  while  Abbie  and  her 
friends  slept  securely,  believing  their  enemy  miles 
away,  he  was  safely  housed  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  where  he  could  watch  their  every  motion, 
and  ascertain  when  they  should  leave  Abbie  alone. 
He  determined  to  watch  his  chance  when  the  men 


122  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

were  all  away,  then  go  boldly  in,  and,  if  Abbie 
would  not  go  with  him,  make  his  threat  good  by 
taking  the  child.  She  should  never  bring  his  child 
up  in  that  house. 

While  making  his  plans  for  future  operation,  he 
fell  asleep,  and,  owing  to  his  fatigue,  did  not  wake 
until  the  short  winter  day  was  far  advanced.  When 
he  entered  the  family  room,  he  met  Mrs.  Deering, 
a  quiet,  sweet-tempered  woman,  in  the  midst  of  her 
household  duties.  She  had  prepared  his  breakfast, 
which  was  waiting  for  him,  and  of  which  he  par 
took  heartily.  Then,  as  Mr.  Deering  did  not  ap 
pear,  he  inquired  where  he  had  gone,  and  was  told 
that  he  had  gone  to  the  village. 

He  sat  down  at  a  window  which  overlooked  the 
grounds  of  Mr.  Saunders.  No  one  seemed  to  be 
stirring,  and  he  carelessly  asked  if  they  had  left  the 
house.  Mrs.  Deering  did  not  reply,  but  little 
Danny,  a  boy  often  years,  said  he  saw  them  go  by 
to  the  woods,  just  at  daylight.  His  mother  gave 
him  a  reproving  look,  but  the  mischief  was  done. 
Rushford  rose  hastily  and  left  the  house. 

Passing  around  to  the  back  of  the  house,  so  that 
he  should  not  be  discovered  and  thus  give  Abbie  a 
chance  to  escape,  he  crept  silently  up,  until  he 
gained  a  side  of  Mr.  Saunders'  house  where  there 
were  no  windows.  Here  he  paused  and  listened. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard,  and,  gaining  courage, 
he  passed  boldly  around  and  entered  the  front 
door.  No  one  was  in  the  room  but  Mrs.  Saunders 
and  Roxy. 


RUSHFORD'S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.       123 

He  bowed  with  mock  politeness  to  Mrs.  Sauf- 
ders,  who  rose  and  quietly  asked  him  to  leave  the 
house.  His  only  reply  was  to  ask  to  see  Abbie. 

"  She  is  in  the  kitchen,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders,  "but 
she  does  not  wish  to  see  you,"  at  the  same  time 
stepping  before  the  door  to  intercept  his  move 
ments. 

Thrusting  her  rudely  aside,  he  flung  open  the 
door.  Abbie  was  seated  by  the  stove  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms.  At  sight  of  them  he  stepped 
forward,  but  was  confronted  by  Raz,  who  bade  him 
leave  the  house.  As  he  showed  no  inclination  to 
obey,  Raz  presented  a  pistol  and  again  ordered 
him  to  leave.  He  turned  to  retrace  his  steps,  push 
ing  Mrs.  Saunders  rudely  against  the  wall  as  he 
did  so,  then  fled  precipitately,  as  Raz,  angered  at 
the  treatment  his  mother  received,  emptied  one 
barrel  of  the  pistol  at  his  head. 

The  bullet  flew  wide  of  its  mark,  and  no  harm 
was  done  to  the  fugitive,  who,  as  soon  as  he  was 
well  out  of  danger,  stopped  his  mad  flight  to  con 
sider  what  was  to  be  done  next.  He  was  now  con 
vinced  that  they  would  be  on  the  watch,  and  unless 
he  could  get  rid  of  Raz,  he  would  not  be  allowed 
to  speak  to  Abbie.  He  studied  some  time,  and  at 
last  hit  upon  a  plan.  He  could  have  Raz  arrested 
for  firing  on  him,  and  then,  as  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
he  could  get  into  the  house  with  no  one  to  molest 
him.  While  he  is  gone  for  this  purpose,  we  will  go 
back  and  learn  how  Raz  happened  to  be  near  at 
the  right  time. 


124  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

t.  It  had  been  decided  at  the  breakfast  table  that  it 
would  not  be  prudent  to  leave  the  house  alone,  and 
Raz  was  appointed  to  stay.  He  was  in  the  barn  at 
work  and  happened  to  go  to  the  door  just  in  time 
to  see  Rushford  leave  Mr.  Deering's  house.  He 
recognized  him  at  once,  and,  thinking  his  move 
ments  rather  suspicious,  had  watched  him  until 
aware  of  his  plan;  then  he  slipped,  unobserved  by 
him,  into  the  house,  and  informed  his  mother  and 
sisters  of  what  was  going  on. 

They  stationed  themselves  as  Rushford  found 
them,  and  were  hardly  settled  before  he  entered. 
Raz  would  have  stationed  himself  at  the  outer  door 
had  not  Mrs.  Saunders,  fearing  bloodshed,  and  be 
lieving  that  Rushford  would  obey  her,  insisted 
upon  this  plan.  But  she  found  that  the  man  who 
could  be  cruel  to  his  wife  and  laugh  at  her  pain, 
would  not  scruple  to  lay  rude  hands  upon  her  if 
she  stood  in  his  way.  She  realized  more  than  ever 
how  cruel  must  have  been  the  position  of  her  child 
in  the  power  of  such  a  man. 

As  for  Raz,  he  could  hardly  be  restrained  from 
following  and  shooting  him  like  a  dog.  They  were 
still  talking  over  the  affair  when  a  rap  was  heard 
at  the  door.  On  opening  it  they  met  the  good- 
natured  face  of  the  village  constable,  who  shook 
Raz  by  the  hand  and  asked  what  this  all  meant, 
adding  that  he  had  a  warrant  for  his  arrest.  Raz 
at  once  told  him,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  what 
had  happened. 


RUSHFORD'S  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.       125 

"Then,  if  I  arrest  you,  the  ladies  will  be  left  un 
protected?"  asked  the  officer. 

"  That  is  exactly  how  it  stands,  and  I  think  that  is 
his  game.  He  treated  my  sister  with  the  greatest 
cruelty,  even  threatening  her  life,  and  then  pre 
tended  to  leave  the  country,  but  came  back  after 
dark,  and  was  harbored  by  Deering.  He  hid  there 
until  he  thought  we  were  all  off  for  the  day,  and 
then  came  here.  No  knowing  what  might  have 
happened  if  I  had  not  been  here." 

"  He  is  an  ugly-looking  chap,"  said  the  officer, 
looking  toward  Rushford,  who  stood  a  short  dis 
tance  away,  looking  on  with  an  exultant  smile, 
"and  I  believe  he  means  mischief." 

"I  am  sure  he  does,"  said  Raz.  "That  is  just 
his  game,  you  will  see." 

The  officer  stood  silent  for  some  time,  then  said 
thoughtfully:  "I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't 
like  the  look  of  things  at  all.  But  you  know  I 
have  no  right  to  judge  of  a  case.  If  I  do  my  duty, 
the  ladies  will  be  left  at  his  mercy,  and  I  would  not 
trust  him  a  minute.  I  have  a  mind  to  tear  up  my 
warrant  and  run  the  risk  of  losing  my  position." 

"No  need  of  that,"  said  Raz,  who  had  been  watch 
ing  the  approach  of  a  horseman  who  was  coming 
toward  them  at  a  rapid  rate.  "  My  brother  is  com 
ing,  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

The  officer  glanced  at  the  newcomer;  then,  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Raz,  said  in  a  loud 
tone,  intended  to  reach  the  ear  of  Rushford,  who 


126  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

still  stood  at  a  distance,  "  Erastus  Saunders,  I  ar 
rest  you  in  the  name  of  the  law." 

A  wicked  smile  crossed  the  face  of  Rushford  as 
he  heard  these  words;  then,  catching  the  sound  of 
horse's  hoofs,  he  turned  and  saw  the  approach  of 
Anda.  The  smile  changed  to  a  look  of  anger,  and 
he  walked  hurriedly  away. 

The  situation  was  explained  to,  Anda,  and  Raz 
was  preparing  to  accompany  the  officer,  when  he 
inquired:  "But  how  did  you  happen  to  come  so 
opportunely?  We  were  in  a  great  quandary  and 
did  not  know  what  to  do." 

"I  did,"  interrupted  the  officer.  "I  would  have 
thrown  up  my  commission  before  I  would  have 
taken  Raz  away." 

"Good  for  you!  Let's  shake  hands  on  that!" 
exclaimed  Anda,  seizing  his  hand  with  a  hearty 
grip. 

Raz  was  much  affected  by  the  behavior  of  the 
officer.  They  had  been  merely  speaking  acquaint 
ances  before,  but  from  that  time  they  were  firm 
friends. 

Anda  then  told  his  story,  which  was  simple 
enough.  He  had  been  to  the  village  and  met  Mr. 
Deering,  who  told  him  that  Rushford  was  back  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  he  had  ridden  over  to  see  if 
all  was  right. 

"  You  came  in  the  nick  of  time,"  said  Raz.  "  Now 
I'll  forgive  that  Deering.  I  was  so  mad  when  I 
found  he  had  harbored  Rushford  I  could  have 
killed  him." 


RUSHFORDS  DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN.    I2/ 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  him,  I  should  not  have 
been  here,"  said  Anda.  "So  save  your  anger  for 
some  better  cause." 

"You  will  have  cause  enough,  if  I  am  not  mis 
taken,"  said  Rush,  the  officer.  "That  man  has  got 
the  devil  in  him,  and  he  will  give  you  trouble 
enough  unless  you  can  get  ric!  of  him." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Raz,  "and  I  don't  like  to 
be  away  overnight.  It  leaves  father,  who  is  old, 
and  Will  all  alone.  I  suppose  there  will  have  to  be 
a  trial  before  I  can  get  away?" 

"Yes,  but  that  can  easily  be  fixed,"  said  Rush. 
"We  can  have  the  trial  come  off  this  afternoon  and 
get  home  to-night." 

"Good!"  said  Raz,  much  relieved.  "That  will 
'be  capital,  so  let  us  be  off  at  once.  You  must  keep 
a  sharp  lookout,"  he  added  to  Anda  as  he  rode 
away. 

"And  have  the  witnesses  there  at  four,"  called 
Rush. 

Anda  entered  the  house  and  greeted  his  mother 
and  sister.  He  answered  their  many  questions, 
then  asked  one  himself:  "What  has  been  the 
trouble,  dear  sister?  I  am  anxious  to  know,  for  I 
have  heard  nothing  but  what  Deering  told  me  this 
morning,  and  I  should  like  to  hear  the  story  from 
your  own  lips." 

While  Abbie  answers  his  question,  we  will  answer 
one  which  has  no  doubt  entered  the  mind  of  our 
reader:  Where  had  Anda  been? and  why  did  he 
not  know  of  his  sister's  trouble? 


128  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

We  answer:  Anda  had  married  about  three 
months  before  his  sister,  and  was  now  living  some 
distance  from  them,  near  his  wife's  parents.  This 
was  but  the  second  day  since  her  parents  had  heard 
of  her  trouble,  so  he  had  heard  nothing  about  it. 

Anda  was  Abbie's  favorite  brother,  because  of  his 
kind,  gentle  ways,  and  his  tender  thoughtfulness  of 
her  comfort.  He  had  taken  the  position  of  young 
manhood  just  as  Abbie  began  to  throw  off  the  tastes 
and  habits  of  little  girlhood,  so  it  happened  that  it 
was  he  who  had  taken  her  to  the  picnics,  and  shared 
her  pleasant  drives  or  horseback  rides  through  the 
country.  They  had  grown  to  love  one  another 
more  than  is  usually  the  case  with  brother  and 
sister. 

As  she  now  poured  the  tale  of  her  trouble  into 
his  eager  ear,  she  felt  sure  of  his  tender  sympathy. 
Oh,  how  sweet  were  these  assurances  to  her  hungry 
heart! 


CHAPTER     XI. 

THE    TRIAL. 

SAUNDERS  returned  before  they 
started  for  the  village,  and  accompanied 
them  to  the  court  room.  Raz  was  ac~ 
quitted  in  due  form,  and  the  crowd  broke  up 
amid  great  excitement. 

Just  as  Mr.  Saunders  was  about  to  drive  away, 
the  justice  came  eagerly,  elbowing  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  and  called  out  in  a  loud  voice,  "Here, 
you  young  chap,"  motioning  to  Raz,  "come  this 
way  a  minute.  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  led  the  way  into  his  private  room,  Raz  follow 
ing  him  and  dreading  a  reprimand.  What  was  his 
surprise  to  see  him  take  from  the  rack  where  it  had 
been  resting  a  small  six-barreled  revolver,  and,  after 
wiping  the  dust  from  it,  examine  it  carefully.  At 
last  he  seemed  satisfied,  and  turned  to  his  astonished 
visitor. 

"  Do  you  call  that  shooting  iron  of  yours  the  best 
to  be  had?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Raz.     "To  tell  the  truth,  I 
was  ashamed  to  show  it.     It  is  an  old  one  that  my 
brother  got  in  some  trade.     We  have  never  paid 
9  (129) 


I3O  ABRIE    SAUKDERS. 

any  attention  to  it,  as  we  don't  have  much  use  for 
anything  of  that  kind  at  ou'r  house." 

"If  I  mistake  not,"  said  the  justice,  "you  will  - 
have  need  enough  for  one  now.  If  I  am  a  judge  of 
human  nature,  that  rascal  will  give  you  plenty  of 
trouble  yet.  I  don't  like  the  look  of  him  a  bit  and 
I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  me  how  that  quiet,  sensi 
ble-looking  sister  of  yours  came  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  him." 

"His  mother  and  mine  were  old  friends,  and  he 
lived  with  us  a  long  time.  I  never  liked  him  much, 
but  would  not  have  believed  him  such  a  rascal." 

"Well,  I  was  going  to  say  if  you  like  you  can 
take  this  shooting  iron,  and  use  it  as  long  as  you 
please.  If  you  can't  settle  him  with  that,  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  Protect  the  ladies  and  the  law  will 
protect  you." 

Raz  was  surprised  and  thankful  for  this  token  of 
friendship,  and  thanked  him  heartily.  He  not  only 
had  a  better  weapon,  but  he  had  made  a  friend  for 
which  he  felt  more  grateful  than  he  could  have 
thought  possible  a  few  days  before. 

He  hurried  out,  thinking  he  had  kept  them  all 
waiting,  but  found  that  they  had  hardly  noticed  his 
absence.  They  were  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
friends,  who  had  left  their  warm  firesides  to  assure 
them  of  their  sympathy.  It  has  been  said  that  "  a 
friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed."  Never  had 
friendship  seemed  so  precious  to  them  as  now,  when 
they  so  much  needed  it. 


THE   TRIAL.  13! 

"  You  had  better  take  my  advice,"  said  one  white- 
haired  old  gentleman,  as  they  drove  away. 

The  drive  home  was  a  silent  one.  Each  was  busy 
with  his  own  thoughts.  They  found  a  warm  sup 
per  ready  for  them  on  their  arrival,  to  which  they 
did  ample  justice. 

Soon  they  were  seated  around  the  cheerful  fire, 
which,  after  their  cold  ride,  seemed  unusually  pleas 
ant.  But,  though  it  gave  forth  its  brightest  glow, 
none  seemed  to  heed,  and  none  but  sad  faces  were 
turned  toward  it. 

At  last  Mr.  Saunders  said:  "I  scarcely  know  what 
to  do  about  it.  Mr.  Corbit  says  we  will  not  be  free 
of  that  fellow  unless  we  adopt  severe  measures,  and 
many  others  seem  to  share  his  opinion.  There 
seems  to  be  no  other  course  to  pursue  but  to  have 
him  arrested." 

Mrs.  Saunders  looked  up  suddenly:  "  I  did  hope 
that  could  be  avoided." 

"So  did  I.  It  is  very  disagreeable  indeed,  but 
you  know  it  would  not  be  safe  to  leave  the  house  at 
all.  Neither  you  nor  Abbie  would  be  safe  an  hour 
if  we  were  to  leave  you  alone,  and  we  need  to  be 
chopping  every  day." 

"But  what  can  we  do?"  asked  Raz. 

"  Corbit  says  he  should  advise  me  to  have  him 
arrested." 

"That's  just  what  Rush  and  the  officer  say,"  said 
Raz.  "All  are  agreed  in  saying  that  we  have  a  hard 
customer  to  deal  with,  and  that  we  have  got  to  stop 
fooling  or  we'll  go  under." 


132  ABBIE  SAUNDERS. 

"Yes,  all  are  agreed  on  that,"  said  Will,  "and  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  was  up  to  some  deviltry 
now." 

"I  guess  not.     He's  too  big  a  coward  to  come 

o  o 

out  in  the  night." 

"Don't  you  fool  yourself,  Raz.  You'll  find  he 
has  got  pluck  enough  when  he  can  be  doing  some 
thing  mean.  By  the  way,  where  is  that  old  shooting 
iron  of  mine?" 

"It  is  in  its  place,  you'll  find  if  you  look." 

Will  took  it  down  with  a  comical  air  of  concern, 
and  looked  it  all  over  carefully. 

"I  say,  Raz,  how  did  you  do  it?  It  don't  strike 
fire  half  the  time  for  me." 

"It  did  this  time,"  said  Raz,  as  he  remembered 
the  scene,  which  looked  quite  amusing  now;  "and 
somebody  got  outside  the  door  quicker  than  he 
ever  did  the  trick  before,  I  guess." 

"I  suppose  he  thought  it  might  make  a  mistake 
and  go  off.  He  made  fun  enough  of  it  when  I  got 
it." 

"It  was  not  pointed  at  his  head  then.  That 
makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world  with  a  man's 
feelings,"  laughed  Raz.  "At  least,  I  think  it  would 
with  mine." 

"No  doubt.  But  I  don't  like  the  idea  that  this  is 
all  we  have  got  in  the  shape  of  a  weapon.  It  might 
not  behave  so  well  next  time." 

Mr.  Saunders  sat  quietly  watching  the  embers, 
not  appearing  to  take  any  notice  of  the  conversa 
tion,  but  he  looked  up  now. 


THE   TRIAL.  133 

"What  did  the  justice  want  of  you,  Raz?" 

"Just  a  little  advice  and  assistance,  sir." 

"I  suppose  he  advised  you  to  steer  clear  of 
shooting  irons,  didn't  he?"  asked  Will. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  presented  me  with  a  better 
one,  and  advised  me  to  use  it  with  more  accuracy 
next  time." 

"Presented  you  with  a  better  one!"  cried  Will  in 
astonishment.  "And  pray  where  is  it?" 

"  Here,"  said  Raz,  drawing  it  from  under  his  coat, 
where  it  had  been  unnoticed,  and  holding  it  toward 
Will. 

Will  took  it  with  a  burst  of  admiration.  "Whew, 
isn't  she  a  beauty  though!"  and  he  turned  it  over 
and  over,  gazing  fondly  at  it.  "  Wouldn't  I  like  to 
own  it!" 

Was  there  ever  a  boy  who  did  not  admire  a  nice 
new  shooting  iron.  Will  had  been  secretly  proud 
of  his,  but  this  put  it  all  in  the  shade.  It  was  in 
deed  a  masterpiece,  and  both  boys  were  proud  of  the 
possession  of  the  beautiful  weapon. 

"But  how  did  he  happen  to  give  it  to  you?" 
asked  Will.  "Did  you  borrow  it?" 

"No,  he  offered  it  himself.  I  noticed  that  he  ex 
amined  the  old  one  some  in  the  court  room,  and 
just  as  I  was  going  to  get  into  the  sleigh,  he  called 
me  back  and  into  his  room.  I  expected  he  wanted 
to  caution  me  about  using  firearms,  and  was  ready 
to  use  my  tongue  in  my  own  defense,  when,  to  my 
surprise,  he  gave  me  this  revolver,  saying  it  was  his 
opinion  we  would  need  it." 


134  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

Mr.  Saunders  had  not  spoken  again.  The  sight 
of  the  revolver  produced  a  different  effect  upon  him 
than  it  did  upon  his  sons.  It  brought  sad  forebod 
ings  of  the  future,  and  he  at  once  resolved  to  have 
Steve  arrested  before  more  trouble  overtook  them. 
He  advised  Raz  to  be  careful  how  he  used  the  play 
thing  in  his  hands,  else  he  might  get  into  trouble. 

Raz  told  him  what  the  justice  had  said,  then  de 
scribed  the  scene  of  the  morning  more  plainly,  say 
ing  he  should  be  sorry  to  use  it,  but  no  man  should 
lay  hands  on  his  mother  as  he  had  seen  done  that 
morning,  with  impunity. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  think  I  am  wrong,  do  you, 
father?"  he  added. 

"No,  my  son.  We  must  protect  your  mother 
and  sister  at  all  hazards,  but  I  dread  bloodshed,  and 
think  I  shall  have  him  arrested.  It  may  save  one 
or  more  lives." 

They  continued  the  conversation  some  time  and 
concluded  to  get  out  another  warrant  in  the  morn 
ing.  All  due  precautions  were  taken  to  secure  their 
safety,  and  then  all  retired. 

Abbie  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Her 
thoughts  were  too  busy  with  painful  memories,  and 
too  much  troubled  with  anxiety  for  the  future.  The 
conversation  of  her  brothers  had  been  very  painful 
to  her,  yet  she  could  say  nothing  against  the  course 
proposed,  or  against  the  preparations  for  defense. 

She  knew  the  relentless  disposition  of  their  com 
mon  enemy  better  than   they.     She  had   felt   his 


THE    TRIAL.  135 

power,  and  knew  that  he  would  hesitate  at  nothing 
that  would  wreak  his  vengeance  upon  any  who  had 
offended  him.  Any  attempt  at  reconciliation  would 
only  make  matters  worse.  He  professed  great  love 
for  his  wife  and  child,  now  that  they  were  out  of 
his  reach,  but  she  knew  that  it  was  only  for  effect; 
neither  the  cries  of  the  child  nor  the  tears  and 
entreaties  of  his  wife  could  move  him  from  any 
cruel  purpose,  if  once  they  were  in  his  power. 

She  believed  that  if  he  set  his  will  upon  obtaining 
them  again,  he  would  hesitate  at  nothing  to  gain 
his  ends,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with  painful  fore 
bodings  as  she  saw  the  preparations  for  self-defense 
made  by  her  brothers,  for  she  believed  their  hands 
would  soon  be  stained  with  blood  unless  something 
intervened  to  prevent  it. 

Even  as  they  talked,  her  heart  went  up  to  the 
throne  of  grace  in  prayer  that  they  might  be  pre 
vented  from  shedding  blood.  The  answer  came 
quickly  back,  "Trust  in  God,  my  child."  When 
Mr.  Saunders  made  known  his  intentions,  she 
thanked  God  for  even  this  slight  hope  of  relief,' 
though  she  did  not  forget  that  this  step,  if  success 
fully  accomplished,  would  bring  its  own  trials. 

It  was  a  terrible  thought  to  the  young  and  gentle 
Abbie  to  stand  up  before  a  court  of  justice  and  tes 
tify  against  the  one  she  had  sworn  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey.  The  longer  she  thought  of  this,  the 
harder  it  seemed.  She  even  thought  of  giving  up 
the  struggle,  and  going  back,  but  she  thought  of 


136  ABBIE  SAUNDERS. 

her  babe,  and  felt  that  this  was  the  greater  evil. 
There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  "trust  in  God," 
and  wait.  With  these  reflections  she  fell  asleep. 

She  was  hardly  dressed  in  the  morning  when  she 
was  informed  that  Steve  was  out  at  the  well  and 
wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  was  greatly  troubled, 
and  did  not  know  how  to  act.  Her  father  had 
gone  to  the  village,  but  her  mother,  seeing  her  in 
decision,  advised  her  to  go  and  see  what  he 
wanted.  Perhaps  he  really  wished  to  speak  to  her, 
and  would  go  away  after  the  interview.  She  de 
cided  to  see  him,  at  least  for  a  moment. 

Great  as  was  her  anxiety,  she  could  not  suppress 
a  smile — first  of  amusement,  then  of  contempt — as 
her  eyes  rested  upon  the  figure  before  her.  His 
hat  was  crushed  in  at  the  top,  and  his  hair,  which 
was  rather  long,  was  filled  with  straw  and  chaff. 
He  was  muffled  up  to  the  chin,  and  muffler,  coat, 
and  all  were  ornamented  in  the  same  manner  as  his 
hair.  His  face  wore  a  woe-begone  look,  and,  as 
she  approached  him,  he  came  forward  with  a  totter 
ing  step.  Grasping  her  hand,  he  began  a  very 
touching  speech  which  he  had  prepared  for  the  oc 
casion. 

Abbie  knew,  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  that  he 
was  trying  another  farce,  but  the  whole  thing  was 
so  clumsily  prepared  and  so  greatly  overdrawn 
that  she  could  not  prevent  a  hearty  laugh,  which 
was  echoed  by  her  brothers,  who  had  witnessed  the 
whole  performance. 


THE   TRIAL.  137 

As  he  heard  the  laughter,  his  expression  changed 
to  one  of  shame  and  confusion.  He  was  perfectly 
nonplussed,  and  if  he  had  had  any  important  reason 
for  requesting  an  interview,  he  forgot  it,  and,  after 
talking  a  few  minutes,  in  a  confused  sort  of  way 
took  his  leave,  and  Abbie  entered  the  house. 

Mrs.  Saunders  noticed  the  amused  look  on  her 
face  and  asked  what  had  happened,  adding,  "  I 
thought  the  interview  would  be  very  unpleasant  to 
you,  and  was  surprised  to  hear  you  laugh,  as 
though  very  much  amused." 

Abbie  laughed  again,  then  said:  "I  would  not 
have  believed  when  I  opened  the  door  this  morning 
that  anything  could  make  me  laugh.  But,  mother, 
if  you  had  gone  out  with  me,  I  am  sure  you  would 
have  laughed  too." 

Mrs.  Saunders,  greatly  puzzled,  asked:  "What 
did  you  see  to  laugh  at?  I  don't  understand  it  at 
all." 

Abbie  told  her  what  had  occurred,  at  which  she 
looked  more  puzzled  than  ever. 

"  What  object  could  he  have  in  doing  such  a 
thing?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  see,  mother?  He  wanted  to 
make  me  believe  that  his  condition  is  deplorable 
^without  a  wife;  that  he  is  a  homeless  wanderer,  and 
thus  touch  my  sympathies ;  but  the  farce  was  too 
ridiculous.  I  have  seen  many  a  farce  since  I  mar 
ried  him,  but  none  quite  so  ridiculous  as  this,  be 
fore.  Just  as  though,  when  I  saw  him  enter  Mr. 


138  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

Deering's  house  last  night,  I  could  believe  him  to 
be  in  such  a  forlorn  condition  to-day.  But  it  is 
no  new  thing  for  him  to  try  to  deceive  me,  and  I 
suppose,  because  I  held  my  tongue  and  let  it  pass, 
he  thinks  I  was  deceived,  and  can  be  made  to  be 
lieve  anything." 

Will  and  Raz  j  ust  then  entered.  Will  was  saying : 
"  He  walked  like  a  knee-sprung  horse.  I  wonder 
where  he  learned  that  gait.  I  say,  Abbie,  what  do 
you  suppose  that  fellow  got  himself  up  like  that 
for  ?  It  beat  everything  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  For  ridiculousness,  yes,"  said  Abbie,  in  an  an 
noyed  tone.  Now  that  she  had  had  her  laugh,  the 
absurdity  of  the  scene  vexed  her. 

Raz  seemed  to  share  this  feeling,  and,  taking  a 
seat  beside  her,  asked  her  opinion  of  the  per 
formance. 

"  Did  he  think  we  were  all  fools?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  seemed  to  think  I  am  one,"  Abbie  replied 
bitterly.  "  It  is  not  the  first  time  he  has  tried  to 
deceive  me  in  that  manner.  When  I  lived  with 
him,  I  said  nothing  and  let  it  pass,  always  acting, 
as  far  as  possible,  as  though  I  believed  him,  and  I 
suppose  he  thought  I  was  such  a  fool  that  I  did  not 
know  any  better.  O  brother,  I  never  have — I 
never  can  tell  you  one-half  I  have  suffered  with  that 
man.  He  began  to  deceive  me  before  we  had  been 
married  twenty-four  hours,  and  he  has  continued  to 
torture  and  deceive  me  ever  since.  I  begin  to  be 
lieve  that  he  has  always  deceived  me." 


THE   TRIAL.  139 

"  How  did  he  deceive  you  so  soon  ?  "  asked  Raz, 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"You  remember  the  evening  after  we  were  mar 
ried,  when  we  were  in  the  kitchen  with  the  door 
locked  ? " 

Raz  did  not  remember,  but  Will  said:  "  Yes,  in 
deed,  I  remember !  I  thought  you  would  eat  up 
all  the  pies." 

"  Not  much  pie  did  we  eat." 

«     Then  she  related  what  happened  then,  which  the 
reader  already  knows. 

All  waited  with  breathless  interest  until  she  had 
completed  her  story. 

"  O  mother,"  she  cried,  when  her  story  was 
finished,  "you  never  could  guess  what  I  suffered 
that  night,  and  many  succeeding  ones!  I  fully  be 
lieved  him  to  be  insane,  and  suffered  as  much  as 
though  that  had  really  been  the  case." 

"  But  why  did  you  not  tell  us,  my  child.  It  was 
very  dangerous  to  keep  such  a  thing  still.  Think 
what  your  fate  might  have  been." 

"  I  did  think,  dear  mother.  I  did  think — think — 
think,  until  I  was  nearly  wild,  yet  something  seemed 
to  seal  my  lips  and  prevent  me  from  speaking.  I 
now  think  it  was  all  for  the  best.  What  good 
would  it  have  done  to  tell  it?  No  one  would  have 
believed  me,  for,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  he 
would  never  have  had  another  crazy  spell,  and  I 
should  not  only  have  made  him  angry,  but  would 
have  gained  the  name  of  prattler,  and  so  received  no 


I4O  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

sympathy  when  real  trouble  came.  No,  I  think  it 
was  best  for  me  to  keep  still.  But  if  it  had  not 
been  for  your  last  words  before  my  marriage,  dear 
mother,  I  never  could  have  borne  it,"  she  added 
softly. 

"  What  were  they  ?"  asked  Raz. 

"  They  were,  '  Trust  in  God,  my  child.'  Those 
precious  words  have  come  to  my  mind  in  every 
trial,  and  I  have  found  them  no  false  reed  to  lean 
upon.  Though  they  have  not  taken  away  the 
trouble,  they  have  given  me  strength  to  bear  it." 

"  They  are  indeed  precious  words,"  said  Raz,  in 
subdued  tones. 

"And  we  will  trust  in  him,  my  brother." 

"  Not  by  sitting  still  and  holding  our  hands, 
though.  Do  you  think  we  do  wrong  to  protect 
ourselves,  Abbie  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed!  '  God  helps  those  who  help  them 
selves.'  But  you  must  not  let  your  feelings  run 
away  with  you." 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  govern  them  under  such 
provocation,  but  I  think  your  advice  is  good, 
and  I  will  try  to  follow  it." 

"  If  you  will  all  take  Abbie's  motto  for  a  guide," 
said  Mrs.  Saunders,  "you  will  be  safe." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ARREST   AND    TRIAL    FOR    DIVORCE. 

I 

BT 

R.  SAUNDERS  returned  about  noon 
with  the  intelligence  that  Steve  had  been 
arrested,  and  they  would  be  safe  from  fur 
ther  annoyance  in  that  direction.  Then,  turning  to 
Abbie,  he  said:  — 

"It  is  thought  best  that  you  should  apply  for  a 
divorce  at  once,  so  that  all  can  be  settled." 

"  But  is  it  necessary  for  me  to  do  so,  father  ?" 

"  It  is,  my  daughter,  if  you  do  not  intend  to 
return  to  him." 

"Oh,  no,  never  !  "  cried  Abbie  quickly.  "  I  have 
no  intention  of  doing  such  a  thing.  Indeed,  I 
could  not." 

"  Very  well,  then,  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  have  a 
divorce  as  soon  as  possible,  both  for  your  own  sake 
and  your  child,"  said  her  father  gravely.  "While 
you  remain  as  you  are,  he  will  molest  you  con 
tinually;  but  if  you  have  a  divorce,  he  will  be  apt 
to  give  up.  Besides,  you  can  make  no  move  to 
wards  getting  permanent  control  of  your  child 
until  you  apply  for  a  divorce.  Lawyer  Price  thinks 
it  had  better  be  all  done  at  once,  and  I  have  made 

(HO 


142  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

arrangements  for  you  to  be  there  to-morrow  morn- 

o  J 

ing  in  time  to  arrange  matters  before  the  trial, 
which  will  be  at  ten  o'clock.  Of  course  you  will 
have  to  be  there  for  that." 

"Very  well,  I  will  go,"  said  Abbie,  rising  and 
leaving  the  room. 

She  wished  to  be  alone,  and,  entering  her  own 
room,  she  flung  herself  upon  her  bed,  and  gave 
way  to  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  As  the  diffi 
culties  and  trials  of  her  pathway  loomed  up  before 
her,  she  felt  entirely  unfit  for  the  struggle.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  long,  dark  hill  of  ad 
versity  she  was  doomed  to  climb,  no  resting-place 
for  her  weary  feet.  She  must  climb  on,  on  if  she 
hoped  to  gain  rest  at  last. 

Rest!  Oh,  how  sweet  the  word  sounded  to 
her  weary  ears!  Could  it  ever  be?  Was  there  a 
time  even  in  the  far-off  future  when  she  could  rest, 
with  nothing  to  molest  or  make  her  afraid,  when 
she  could  enjoy  the  sweet  comfort  of  home? 

The  picture  was  a  bright  one  to  contemplate, 
too  bright,  far  too  bright,  she  told  herself  with  a 
feeling  of  despair,  far  too  bright  to  be  true.  No, 
she  must,  however  unwillingly,  turn  from  this  pic 
ture  to  the  stern  reality.  She  must  look  this  fresh 
trouble  in  the  face  and  prepare  to  meet  it.  But,  oh, 
how  weak  and  incapable  she  felt ! 

She  knew  that  the  enemy  she  had  to  deal  with 
was  relentless  as  fate,  that  she  could  hope  for  noth 
ing  from  him  but  trouble,  yet  her  heart  shrank 


ARREST  AND  TRIAL  FOR  DIVORCE.          143 

within  her  as  she  thought  of  appearing  in  a  court  of 
justice  and  testifying  against  the  father  of  her  child. 
Had  he  been  a  hundred  times  more  guilty,  she 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  ordeal. 

She  thought  of  the  grief  and  mortification  his 
parents,  brothers,  and  sisters  would  feel  when  they 
should  hear  of  his  trial,  and  her  heart  bled  for  them. 
Then  she  thought  of  her  own  position,  past,  present, 
and  future,  of  her  babe,  whom  she  must  guard  at 
all  hazards. 

Falling  upon  her  knees,  she  prayed  God  to  guide 
her  in  all  her  trials,  and  help  her  to  put  her  trust 
in  him.  A  sweet  feeling  of  trust  stole  over  her,  and 
she  rose  from  her  knees  greatly  strengthened  and 
began  her  preparations  for  the  morrow.  She  knew 
literally  nothing  of  what  would  be  required  of  her, 
and,  therefore,  could  do  nothing  but  wait  and  trust. 

The  morrow  came  and  they  set  out  for  the  village, 
where  they  arrived  in  safety.  The  court  room  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  Abbie  was  called  to  the  desk, 
where  a  petition  for  divorce  which  had  been  drawn 
up  was  read  to  her,  to  which  she  signed  her  name. 
She  and  Roxy  were  then  led  to  the  witness  stand, 
and  the  trial  began. 

It  is  needless  to  describe  the  formula,  which  is 
understood  by  nearly  everyone  at  the  present  day. 
It  was  a  terrible  ordeal  for  these  two  young  women, 
neither  of  whom  had  ever  seen  the  inside  of  a  court 
room  before,  to  sit  up  there  in  the  witness  box,  the 
target  for  every  eye. 


144  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

When  the  stern  voice  of  the  judge  was  heard 
calling  the  assembly  to  order,  and  Abbie  was  called 
to  be  sworn,  she  tottered  to  her  feet  like  one  sud 
denly  bereft  of  strength.  She  lifted  her  heart  to 
God  in  prayer  for  strength,  which  gradually  re 
turned,  and  she  became  calm  and  firm.  Her  face 
was  pale,  but  her  eyes  shone  with  an  unwonted  fire. 

She  met  unflinchingly  the  eye  of  the  judge,  as  he 
repeated,  in  slow  and  solemn  tones,  the  oath  by 
which  she  must  be  sworn.  A  deathlike  stillness 
reigned  throughout  the  room.  When  the  time 
came  for  her  to  speak  the  words  that  bound  her  to 
speak  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth,  her  voice  was  clear  and  calm;  and  when 
requested  to  tell  her  story,  she  did  so  in  such  a 
straightforward,  frank  manner  that  it  carried  con 
viction  to  every  heart,  and  caused  a  look  of  dismay 
to  settle  over  the  countenances  of  the  defendant  and 
his  counsel.  They  had  hoped  much  from  hesitation 
in  her  story. 

Roxy  was  then  sworn,  and.  though  she  was  not 
so  clear  and  explicit,  her  testimony  corroborated 
that  of  Abbie. 

The  court  proceeded  in  the  usual  manner. 
Speeches  were  made  "pro  and  con."  The  council 
for  the  defendant  used  all  his  eloquence  to  destroy 
the  evidence  of  the  sisters.  He  branded  the  whole 
thing  as  a  "  put-up  job,"  representing  his  client  as 
a  gentle,  loving  father  and  tender  husband,  whom 
this  unnatural  wife  and  her  unprincipled  father  were 


ARREST   AND   TRIAL   FOR    DIVORCE.  145 

trying  to  rob  of  his  only  child  (at  which  said  client 
used  his  handkerchief  freely,  though  it  remained 
perfectly  dry).  He  begged  the  jury  not  to  let  them 
selves  be  deceived  by  two  "chits  of  girls,"  and  drawn 
on  to  do  an  act  of  unprecedented  cruelty  to  a  suffer 
ing  brother,  and  ended  with  a  great  flourish  by 
recommending  his  client  to  the  favor  and  clemency 
of  the  jury. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  dissatisfaction  throughout 
the  room  as  he  resumed  his  seat. 

He  was  followed  by  Squire  Price,  counsel  for  the 
plaintiff,  of  which  there  were  two  of  the  best  in  the 
county  engaged, — Squire  Price  and  Captain  Johns. 

Squire  Price  commenced  his  plea  by  saying  that 
he  should  spend  no  time  in  attempting  to  repute  the 
speech  of  his  opponent,  as,  in  his  opinion,  it  refuted 
itself;  that  his  brother  attorney  reminded  him  of  a 
remark  he  had  heard  made  in  reference  to  the  devil 
— he  had  overshot  the  mark.  In  attempting  to 
hedge  his  client  in  by  all  the  graces  of  virtue  and 
injured  innocence,  while  he  termed  the  injured  wife 
and  mother  a  "chit  of  a  girl,"  and  warned  the  jury 
not  to  be  deceived  by  her,  he  had  plainly  shown  the 
jury  that  he  was  working,  not  for  justice,  but  to  win 
his  case. 

He  had,  he  said,  great  confidence  in  the  judgment 
and  integrity  of  the  jury,  and  felt  that  they  would 
consider  well  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses,  and  be 
guided  thereby.  The  testimony  was  so  plain  that  no 
one  who  heard  it  could  doubt  that  the  defendant, 
10 


146  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

so  far  from  being  a  tender,  loving  husband,  had  been 
a  cruel,  heartless  tyrant,  committing  outrages  upon 
his  defenseless  wife  that  should  not  escape  the  pun 
ishment  of  the  law,  and  crowning  all  by  threatening 
her  life.  If  this  was  showing  his  affection,  he  had 
his  opinion  of  it. 

There  was  great  applause  throughout  his  speech, 
and  when  he  sat  down  the  house  resounded  with 
cheers.  The  jury,  after  a  few  moments'  absence, 
returned  a  verdict  of  guilty,  and  Steve  was  remanded 
to  jail.  Mr.  Saunders  and  his  family  returned  home 
with  strong  hopes  that  their  worst  trouble  was  over, 
but  scarcely  twelve  hours  had  passed  before  they 
were  notified  that  another  trial  would  be  given  the 
defendant,  which  they  must  attend  in  ten  days  from 
that  time. 

Mr.  Crosswell,  attorney  for  defendant,  had  really 
set  himself  to  work,  and  seemed  determined  to 
clear  him. 

This  was  sad  news  for  Abbie.  She  had  hoped 
for  rest  too  soon.  She  must  still  endure  sorrow, 
grief,  and  pain. 

The  final  trial  for  her  divorce  and  custody  of  her 
child  would  not  come  off  until  court  set,  in  March, 
and  it  was  only  the  beginning  of  December. 

Her  council  had  explained  to  her  that,  although 
the  father  could  not  take  the  child  forcibly  from 
her  arms,  yet,  if  he  could  get  possession  of  it  without 
violence,  the  law  could  not  touch  him,  and  she  was 
in  constant  dread  lest  he  should  do  this  crowning 
piece  of  wickedness. 


ARREST   AND    TRIAL   FOR    DIVORCE.  147 

She  had  seen  by  his  looks  and  actions  during  the 
trial  that  he  was  in  no  way  changed,  that  his  thirst 
for  revenge  was  not  yet  satisfied.  To  know  that 
she  suffered  would  only  spur  him  on  to  greater 
deeds  of  violence.  She  also  felt  sure  that  he  had 
a  willing  ally  in  the  person  of  his  counsel,  who 
was  an  evil-minded  man,  whom  none  employed  ex 
cept  when  they  could  get  no  other  to  espouse  their 
cause. 

It  relieved  her  uneasiness  in  a  measure  to  know 
that  her  enemy  was  under  lock  and  key.  But  she 
had  yet  to  learn  the  uncertainty  of  human  hopes. 
How  truly  it  has  been  said,  "  Where  ignorance  is 
bliss  'tis  folly  to  be  wise." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

RUSHFORD    ESCAPES    AND    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST. 

ft 

IME  passed  and  only  one  night  intervened 
before  the  trial.  There  was  no  moon,  and 
it  would  have  been  very  dark  but  for  the 
light  snow  that  had  fallen  through  the  evening. 

All  in  the  house  were  wrapped  in  slumber,  when, 
about  two  o'clock,  Abbie  was  awakened  by  hearing 
her  name  called  in  a  well-known  voice,  which  made 
her  blood  curdle  in  her  veins  and  her  heart  leap 
for  fear.  She  held  her  breath  and  listened.  Could 
she  have  been  mistaken?  Was  it  only  a  dream? 
She  had  almost  persuaded  herself  that  this  was  the 
case,  when  her  name,  called  in  the  same  terrible 
tones,  again  broke  the  midnight  stillness  that 
reigned  around. 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  in  her  brothers' 
room,  and  Abbie  knew  that  one  or  both  of  them 
were  awake.  Soon,  as  if  the  visitant  were  aware 
that  he  had  hearers,  the  voice  was  heard  again,  hol 
low  and  unearthly. 

It  stated  that  it  had  been  summoned  by  super 
human  power,  and  sent  to  warn  Abbie,  and  the  in 
habitants  of  that  house,  not  to  appear  against  one 
(148) 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS   AS   A   GHOST.  149 

Steven  Rushford,  who  was  wrongfully  held  in  cus 
tody.  If  they  heeded  not  this  warning,  a  sudden 
and  terrible  punishment  would  come  upon  them. 

Raz  could  stand  this  no  longer.  Springing  to  the 
window,  he  threw  up  the  sash,  and  thrust  out  his 
head,  just  in  time  to  see  a  figure,  draped  in  white, 
disappear  around  the  corner.  He  stood  in  perfect 
silence  for  a  moment,  trying  to  realize  the  situation. 
Then,  as  it  dawned  upon  him  in  all  its  ridiculous 
absurdity,  he  burst  forth  in  a  hearty  peal  of  laughter, 
joined  by  Will,  who  had  followed  him,  and  had 
also  caught  sight  of  the  flying  figure. 

"Well,  well,  well!  if  that  isn't  about  the  coolest 
thing  I  have  heard  of  lately!"  said  Raz,  as  soon  as 
he  could  speak  for  laughing.  "I  knew  that  man 
was  up  to  all  sorts  of  deviltry,  but  I  did  not  think 
him  capable  of  such  a  ridiculous  performance  as 
this." 

"What  does  he  take  us  for?"  said  Will,  with 
another  laugh. 

"Just  to  think,"  continued  Raz,  "that  he  should 
try  to  deceive  us  by  such  a  flimsy  affair  as  that.  I 
suppose  he  expected  we  would  think  it  was  a  spirit, 
or  an  angel  sent  to  warn  us.  As  if  he  could  per 
sonate  an  angel,  or  a  spirit  either,  for  that  matter, 
though  he  must  have  the  spirit  of  the  devil  in  him 
as  big  as  a  woodchuck,  as  Dutch  George  says." 

"  Yes,"  said  Will,  "and  he  no  doubt  thought  that 
we  would  be  too  frightened  to  recognize  his  voice. 
He  must  believe  himself  £ood  at  acting." 


I5O  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"  Abbie,  are  you  awake?"  called  Raz. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  terrible  warning?" 

"Every  word." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"I  think  I  have  heard  the  gentleman  who  deliv 
ered  that  warning  say  some  silly  things  before." 

"So  you  knew  the  voice?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  perfectly  well .  But  I  thought  he 
was  locked  up.  How  do  you  suppose  he  got  out?  " 

"Got  out?"  echoed  Raz.  "Why,  that  old  rat 
trap  of  a  jail  wouldn't  hold  a  fool  if  they  tried  to 
get  out." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  has  gone?"  asked  Will. 
"I  haven't  heard  a  sound  since  he  turned  the  cor 
ner." 

"  I  am  going  down  to  see,"  replied  Raz,  in  a  reso 
lute  voice,  as  he  opened  his  room  door,  "  and  if  he 
don't  want  more  fun  than  he  bargained  for,  he  had 
better  make  himself  scarce  pretty  suddenly." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  there  was  a  sud 
den  sound  of  footsteps  at  the  corner  where  the  ap 
parition  had  disappeared.  When  he  opened  the 
outer  door,  nothing  was  to  be  seen,  though  he  dis 
tinctly  heard  the  retreating  footsteps.  He  listened 
until  they  were  no  longer  audible,  and  then  re- 
entered  the  house.  To  say  that  he  was  vexed  at 
this  petty  annoyance  would  hardly  do  him  justice. 
As  he  was  passing  his  father's  door,  his  voice  was 
heard  asking  the  cause  of  the  disturbance.  Raz, 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS   AS    A    GHOST.  151 

briefly  explained  what  had  happened,  and  then 
passed  on  to  his  room. 

"The  rascal  stood  by  and  heard  all  we  said," 
cried  Will, as  Raz  entered  the  room.  "I  heard  him 
leave  the  house  as  you  went  down." 

"  I  suspected  as  much,"  replied  Raz.  "  That  was 
what  sent  me  down." 

"  Seems  to  me  spirits  make  more  noise  in  walk 
ing  than  storybooks  give  them  credit  for,"  said 
Will. 

"And  show  more  discretion  in  regard  to  cold 
lead,"  added  Raz.  "  But  we  must  drop  this  inter 
esting  subject  if  we  want  to  get  any  sleep  to-night." 

The  others  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion, 
and  all  was  quiet  for  the  next  two  hours,  when  the 
family  began  to  be  astir,  and  preparations  were 
made  to  start  for  the  village. 

Raz  was  especially  impatient  to  be  off.  "  I  want 
plenty  of  time  before  court  sets,"  he  said,  "and  if 
Steven  Rushford  does  not  make  up  his  mind,  be 
fore  twenty-four  hours  pass,  that  this  is  the  worst 
night's  work  he  ever  did,  I'll  lose  my  guess." 

Abbie  started  when  she  heard  this  threat.  She 
knew  her  brother's  impulsive  disposition,  and  feared 
that  he  would  commit  some  crime.  But  she  need 
have  had  no  fear,  for  Raz  had  no  intention  of  com 
mitting  any  crime.  He  had  a  far  better  plan  than 
that  to  make  Steve  ashamed  of  his  night's  work. 

He  saw  the  look  of  fear  on  her  face,  and  returned 
it  with  a  mischievous  smile,  which  somewhat  re- 


152  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

assured  her,  though  she  watched  him  with  more 
than  common  interest  when  they  arrived  at  the 
village.  She  saw  him  call  Squire  Price  to  one  side, 
where  they  held  a  short  consultation.  Her  brother 
stood  with  his  back  toward  her,  but  she  could  see 
the  face  of  Squire  Price  distinctly. 

At  the  first  words  of  young  Saunders  a  look  of 
surprise  overspread  his  face,  followed,  as  he  con 
tinued  his  story,  by  one  of  incredulity  and  amuse 
ment,  and  as  he  finished  he  burst  into  a  hearty  fit 
of  laughter.  Slapping  Raz  upon  the  back,  he  said 
good-humoredly: — 

"  Come,  come,  Saunders,  all  this  trouble  and 
worry  must  be  turning  your  brain.  A  ghost,  did 
you  say?  Who  ever  heard  of  such  nonsense  at 
this  time  of  the  world?  No,  no,  you  must  be  try 
ing  to  fool  me.  You  surely  cannot  believe  in 
ghosts?" 

All  eyes  were  by  this  time  directed  toward  the 
two  men,  for  who  does  not  become  instantly  inter 
ested  at  the  mention  of  ghosts.  But  Raz  did  not 
seem  to  mind  them,  as  he  said,  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all  in  the  room : — 

"I  do  most  certainly  believe  in  this  one,  though, 
and  when  you  are  done  laughing,  I  want  you  to 
help  me  prove  it  to  be  no  myth." 

Surprise  again  overspread  the  countenance  of  the 
squire,  but  he  did  not  reply,  as  all  was  instantly 
confusion,  and  all  clamored  to  hear  the  story  of  the 
ghost.  There  was  such  a  flow  of  jokes  and  witty 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS   AS    A    GHOST.  153 

remarks  that  it  was  some  time  before  anyone  could 
speak  so  as  to  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  voices. 
At  length  a  loud  voice  was  heard  calling  them  to 
order,  and  saying  that  Squire  Price  would  tell  the 
story  if  the  people  would  be  quiet  enough  to  listen 
to  him. 

"Hear!  hear!"  cried  several  voices,  and  the 
squire  repeated  in  substance  what  young  Saunders 
had  told  him.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished,  con 
fusion  reigned  again  in  the  court  room.  At  this 
moment  the  door  was  closed  between  them  and  the 
witnesses'  waiting  room,  and  Abbie  saw  no  more. 
But  she  had  seen  enough  to  understand  her  broth 
er's  intentions,  and  felt  greatly  relieved. 

Squire  Price  soon  joined  Raz,  and  asked:  "What 
did  you  mean  by  asking  me  to  prove  that  your 
ghost  was  no  myth?  I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  mean  that  that  ghost  was  no  other  than  Steve 
Rushford,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me  prove  it." 

"  But  that  cannot  be,  for  I  saw  him  in  his  cell  not 
an  hour  ago,"  said  the  squire  in  surprise. 

"Nevertheless,  I  know  he  was  at  our  place  last 
night,"  persisted  Raz,  in  no  way  daunted  by  the 
squire's  skepticism. 

"  But  how  can  we  prove  this?" 

"I  think  it  will  be  easy  enough.  That  our  visi 
tor  in  white  was  no  ghost  I  am  sure,  and  that  it 
was  Steven  Rushford  I  am  equally  sure.  Now  it 
follows  that  if  he  was  there  he  must  have  escaped 
in  some  way,  and  he  never  went  through  the  key-  . 


154  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

hole,  that  I  know.  Now  it  is  my  opinion  that  if 
we  search  we  will  find  out  how  he  made  his  escape." 

"That's  a  good  idea,  Saunders.  But  if  he  did 
escape,  what  a  fool  he  was  for  coming  back!" 

"Oh,  he  thinks  he  will  get  off  scot  free!1'  said 
Raz,  as  they  neared  the  prison  door. 

The  turnkey  was  at  his  post,  and  two  or  three 
gentlemen  stood  near. 

"Is  time  up?  "  asked  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  Not  quite,"  replied  the  squire.  "  I  came  to  see 
if  all's  right  here." 

"All's  right,"  spoke  up  the  turnkey.  "  I  guard 
this  door,  your  honor." 

"  But  Saunders  says  the  prisoner  was  at  his  place 
last  night  between  the  hours  of  one  and  two.  How 
do  you  account  for  that  ?  " 

"All  bosh,  sir!"  and  the  turnkey  bestowed  a 
look  of  indignation  and  disdain  upon  young  Saun 
ders.  "  I  locked  him  up  myself  at  half  past  nine 
last  night,  and  found  him  all  right  this  morning. 
I  should  think  that  was  plain  enough  proof  for  any 
man  that  he  has  not  been  out.  He  would  be  a  fool 
to  come  back  if  he  once  got  free." 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  asked  the  squire,  turning 
to  Raz. 

"  Yes,"  said  Raz,  with  an  undaunted  look,  "  I 
am  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  both  saw  him  and  heard 
him  speak  at  our  house  last  night  between  one  and 
two." 

"  It  must  have  been  his  ghost,  then,"  said  the 
turnkey,  contemptuously. 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS   AS   A    GHOST.  155 

"  Perhaps  it  was,"  said  Raz  in  much  the  same 
tone,  '"at  least  it  was  draped  in  white,  although 
the  voice  was  quite  familiar." 

"  Saunders  has  seen  a  ghost,"  shouted  several 
voices  in  a  chorus,  for  by  this  time  quite  a  crowd 
had  assembled. 

Raz  paid  no  attention  to  the  rabble,  but  urged  the 
squire  to  search  the  cell.  They  entered  and  found 
Rushford  apparently  engaged  in  reading  a  book, 
which  had  been  kindly  furnished  him  to  while  away 
the  tedious  hours  of  his  imprisonment.  He  rose 
with  well-feigned  astonishment,  and  greeted  them. 

Squire  Price  informed  him  of  the  accusation 
brought  against  him  by  young  Saunders,  at  which 
he  showed  much  surprise,  declaring  that,  as  they 
very  well  knew,  he  was  locked  in  without  the  privi 
lege  of  handling  his  own  key,  and  that  the  story 
was  absurd,  and  should  receive  no  credence  from 
sane  men. 

Then,  turning  to  Raz,  with  a  solemn  and  subdued 
air,  he  said:  "Young  man,  if  you  have  received  a 
visit  from  the  unknown  world,  I  hope  you  will  heed 
whatever  warning  you  may  have  received,  for  it  is 
a  dreadful  thing  to  disregard  such  warnings." 

He  looked  at  Raz  with  a  bold,  unflinching  look, 
but  as  Raz  still  continued  to  hold  his  gaze,  a  look 
of  confusion  overspread  his  face,  his  eyes  fell,  and 
he  turned  away. 

When  he  first  began  to  speak,  nearly  all  of  his 
hearers  believed  him  innocent  of  the  charge  brought 


156  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

against  him,  but  the  last  sentence  opened  their  eyes. 
Not  a  word  had  been  said  by  Squire  Price  of  any 
warning,  but  only  that  he  (Rushford)  had  been  seen 
there.  His  words  proved  that  he  knew  more  than 
could  possibly  have  been  conveyed  by  Price's  expla 
nation,  and  they  at  once  believed  him  guilty.  This, 
however,  was  yet  to  be  proved,  but  it  was  not  long 
in  being  done. 

As  soon  as  he  had  lost  Steve's  eye,  Raz  set  him 
self  to  work  to  discover  the  mode  of  his  exit.  He 
could  see  no  chance  unless  the  lock  had  been 
picked.  The  building  in  which  Steve  was  confined, 
and  which  was  called  the  jail,  was  merely  an  old 
dwelling  house,  and  the  cell  was  a  small  bedroom. 
The  window  to  this  room  had  been  barred,  but  only 
the  lock  was  used  to  secure  the  door,  for,  as  the 
turnkey  slept  in  the  next  room  on  such  occasions  as 
they  had  a  prisoner  (which  was  rare  indeed),  it  was 
considered  sufficient.  As  soon,  then,  as  Raz  came 
to  this  conclusion,  he  began  to  examine  the  lock, 
and  soon  discovered  that  it  had  been  lately  removed. 
He  called  the  attention  of  Squire  Price  to  it,  and, 
after  examining  it  carefully,  he  pronounced  Saun- 
ders'  suspicions  correct. 

The  murder  was  out.  There  was  no  use  of  any 
further  denial,  and  Steve  was  unmercifully  bantered 
and  laughed  at  during  the  remainder  of  the  day. 
Had  he  owned  it  up  when  first  confronted  with  the 
accusation,  it  might  have  been  treated  more  as  a 
joke,  but  in  his  attempts  to  deny  all  knowledge  of 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS   AS   A    GHOST.  157 

it,  he  had  again  overshot  the  mark,  and  exposed 
himself  to  the  ridicule  of  all.  He  sat  among  the 
laughing,  shouting  crowd,  trying  to  put  a  bold  face 
on  the  matter;  but  the  ridicule  of  the  crowd  was 
too  much,  and  he  had  to  own  himself  beaten  with 
his  own  weapons.  This  was  what  Raz  had  intended, 
and  he  was  satisfied. 

They  were  soon  called  to  the  court  room,  and  the 
business  of  the  day  commenced.  The  witnesses  for 
plaintiff  were  questioned  and  cross-questioned  by 
defendant's  counsel,  but  did  not  vary  from  their  first 
statement,  and  were  at  length  dismissed.  After 
several  hours'  wrangling  among  the  lawyers,  the 
case  was  decided  in  favor  of  the  plaintiff  Word  to 
that  effect  was  soon  carried  to  Abbie,  but  she  had 
scarcely  time  to  rejoice  before  she  was  informed 
that  defendant  had  appealed  to  a  higher  court,  and 
that  his  counsel  had  gone  bail  for  him,  and  he  would 
be  set  at  liberty. 

The  bail  had  been  fixed  at  moderate  figures, 
merely  as  a  matter  of  form,  for  the  authorities  did 
not  believe  that  bail  could  be  found  for  him  at  any 
price,  as  he  had  few  or  no  friends  in  the  neighbor 
hood  except  his  counsel,  and  they  did  not  believe 
he  would  go  as  far  as  that.  They  were  much  cha 
grined,  but  it  was  too  late  to  mend  the  matter,  and 
he  was  released.  Taking  the  arm  of  his  counsel,  he 
walked  out  of  the  court  room  with  evident  exulta 
tion. 

Captain  Johns  hastened  to   the  presence  of  the 


158  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

plaintiff.  He  was  soon  followed  by  Squire  Price 
They  did  not  like  the  turn  affairs  had  taken,  or  the 
appearance  of  the  defendant  and  his  counsel,  and 
felt  sure  that  fresh  annoyance,  if  not  real  trouble, 
was  in  store  for  their  client.  They  blamed  them 
selves  for  allowing  bail,  and  hastened  to  do  all  they 
could  to  make  amends  by  putting  her  on  her  guard 
against  surprise  in  case  any  harm  should  be  intended 
against  her.  They  warned  her  to  be  cautious,  and 
advised  her  father  and  brothers  not  to  leave  her  un 
protected  for  a  single  hour,  cautioned  her  again 
about  the  child,  and  exacted  a  promise  in  case  any 
thing  should  happen  that  they  should  be  informed 
of  it  immediately. 

With  heavy  hearts  Abbie  and  her  friends  started 
for  home.  They  had  not  proceeded  far,  however, 
when  they  were  hailed  by  one  of  a  group  of  men 
who  stood  conversing  near  the  road.  He  immedi 
ately  came  up  to  the  sleigh  and  shook  hands  with 
Raz,  saying: — 

"That  is  a  hard  customer  you  have  to  deal  with. 
Do  you  think  you  can  cope  with  him?" 

"  We  are  three  against  one,  and  it  is  a  pity  if  we 
are  not  a  match  for  one  man,"  said  Raz. 

"But  you  really  have  two  of  the  worst  men,  to 
my  thinking,  that  the  country  affords,  to  fight 
against,"  said  the  man,  whom  we  will  call  Brown. 

"You  don't  think  Crosswell  would  stoop  to  help 
him  in  any  of  his  deviltry,  do  )TOU?"  asked  Raz,  a 
shade  of  uneasiness  in  hi. 5  voice. 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST.  159 

"He  may  not  really  help  him,  for  he  is  sharp 
enough  to  know  that  this  place  would  be  too  hot  to 
hold  him  pretty  quick  if  he  dared  to  do  that,"  re 
plied  the  man,  "but  he  will  help  him  plan  his  devil 
try,  which  is  about  as  bad,  and  instruct  him  how  to 
act  so  as  to  give  you  all  the  trouble  possible  with 
out  really  laying  himself  liable;  and  these  gentlemen 
feel  sure,  as  your  lawyers  do  also,  I  think,  that  you 
have  trouble  ahead.  We  believe  you  will  do  as 
much  as  any  man  can  to  protect  your  sister,  but  if 
at  any  time  you  want  any  help,  just  let  us  know 
and  we  are  on  hand." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Raz.  "You  are  very  kind, 
and  I  shall  certainly  call  upon  you  if  I  need  your 
help." 

"Do  so  by  all  means,  for  I  long  to  get  a  dab  at 
the  rascal." 

Touching  his  cap,  Brown  rejoined  his  companions, 
while  Mr.  Saunders  put  whip  to  his  horses,  and 
away  they  sped  to  ward  home. 

As  we  have  before  stated,  a  light  snow  had  fallen 
during  the  night  before,  and  now,  as  the  sun,  which 
was  fast  sinking  in  the  west,  threw  its  slanting  rays 
across  field  and  meadow,  the  scene  was  enchanting. 
Their  road  led  across  the  river,  then  confined  by 
the  icy  bands  of  winter;  then  out  across  the  prairie, 
where  cultivated  fields,  now  lying  idle  and  covered 
with  snow,  met  their  gaze  on  every  side ;  past  farm 
houses,  where  children  hastily  scratched  the  frost 
from  the  windowpanes  as  they  heard  the  bark  of 


l6o  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

the  faithful  watchdog,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pass 
ing  sleigh,  and  where  the  patient  cattle  stood  munch 
ing  their  dry  hay,  and  shivering  with  cold;  then 
they  plunged  into  the  heavy  timber  that  skirted  the 
river  for  a  mile  or  two.  Again  crossing  the  river, 
they  emerged  once  more  upon  the  open  prairie,  just 
as  the  sun  threw  its  last  rays  across  hill  and  dale. 
A  brisk  drive  of  half  an  hour  brought  them  safe  at 
home. 

Our  heroine  and  her  friends  had  only  noticed  the 
beauties  through  which  they  passed  in  an  absent 
manner,  and  were  glad  to  gather  around  their  cheer 
ful  hearth  once  more.  Scarcely  a  word  had  been 
spoken  by  any  of  the  party  since  leaving  the  village. 
Each  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  to  wish 
to  converse.  And  they  had  cause  for  deep  thought, 
for  even  as  the  shades  of  night  had  settled  down 
upon  them  as  they  entered  the  house,  so  the  shadow 
of  coming  trouble  settled  over  that  household. 

Each  had  his  own  thoughts,  and  each  kept  them 
to  himself.  Raz  was  by  no  means  a  coward,  but  he 
began  to  feel  the  effect  of  this  continual  annoyance, 
and  was  inclined  to  take  severe  measures  in  order 
to  rid  himself  of  this  trouble.  He  did  not  believe 
that  Steve  would  dare  to  do  much  if  he  knew  they 
were  on  the  watch.  It  was  the  continual  necessity 
of  this  that  chafed  him.  If  this  state  of  affairs 
lasted  much  longer,  it  would  necessitate  the  loss  of 
considerable  money,  as  well  as  time,  and  they  were 
ill  prepared  for  such  an  emergency.  He  was  thank- 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS   A    GHOST.  l6l 

ful  to  Mr.  Brown  and  his  friends  for  their  offer  of 
assistance,  for  he  knew  that  a  time  might  come 
when  he  should  need  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Saunders  were  busy  with  their  own 
sad  thoughts,  and  felt  no  inclination  to  converse, 
so,  after  rather  a  dull  evening,  which  was  seldom  to 
be  found  in  the  sitting  room  of  the  Saunders  family, 
they  retired  to  their  rooms,  and  the  house  was  soon 
wrapped  in  silence. 

We  will  now  speak  of  Abbie,  who  had  hardly 
spoken  since  leaving  the  village.  Those  earnest 
words  of  Squire  Price,  warning  her  to  keep  close 
watch  of  her  child,  did  not  tend  to  reassure  her, 
and  she  clasped  her  darling  tightly  in  her  arms, 
while  her  heart  beat  wildly  with  emotion,  and  hot 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  She  thought  of  its 
being  torn  from  her  arms  and  borne  far  away,  to  be 
nursed  by  strangers,  perhaps  neglected  and  abused, 
and  she  felt  that  it  would  be  more  than  she  could 
bear.  She  had  been  assured  that,  although  the 
custody  of  the  child  would  undoubtedly  be  awarded 
to  her  when  all  should  be  settled,  yet,  if  he  could 
get  possession  of  it,  he  might  hide  it  away  and  thus 
make  her  much  trouble  and  cost  in  procuring  it. 

What  pen  can  portray  the  anguish  and  fear  that 
filled  the  young  mother's  heart,  as  these  terrible 
possibilities  passed  through  her  mind.  She  had 
not  the  assurance,  that  in  some  cases  might  have 
lessened  the  sorrow,  that  it  would  be  in  the  care  of 
a  kind  and  indulgent  father,  who  would  shield  it 
II 


I  62  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

from  pain  as  far  as  possible.  She  knew  that  its 
feeble  cries  would  be  more  likely  to  elicit  anger 
than  pity  from  that  heart  that  should  melt  at  its 
faintest  tones  of  distress. 

Alas,  she  knew  but  too  well  how  hard  that 
heart  was !  And  yet  she  felt  a  kind  of  tender  pity 
for  him,  and  often  wondered  if  no  spark  of  love  for 
his  child  ever  tugged  at  his  heart  and  begged  him 
to  relent. 

Though  she  had  watched,  when  in  his  presence, 
for  one  look  of  tender  affection  for  his  babe,  she 
had  seen  only  one  of  hatred  and  contempt,  and  she 
could  but  ask  herself  if  it  could  be  possible  that 
he  did  not  love  his  child. 

The  answer  ever  came  by  memories  of  his  cruel 
treatment,  and,  clasping  her  child  more  tenderly  to 
her  heart,  she  prayed  God  to  protect  them  both,  and 
fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  the  rest  had 
somewhat  relieved  her  fears,  and  she  resumed  her 
duty  of  assisting  her  mother,  in  a  quiet,  subdued 
manner,  yet  never  for  a  moment  losing  sight  of  her 
child. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  her  little 
brother  Eddie  came  in  and  said  that  Steve  was  at 
the  gate  and  wished  to  see  her.  She  started,  turned 
pale,  and  bent  an  inquiring  look  upon  her  mother, 
who  said:  "He  will  not  dare  to  harm  you,  my 
daughter.  Do  not  give  way  so.  Perhaps  he  only 
wishes  to  speak  to  you,  and  will  then  go  away.  It 
is  best  not  to  vex  him  if  you  can  help  it." 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST.  163 

She  had  sprung  and  caught  her  babe,  and  now 
held  its  little  soft  cheek  pressed  to  hers  as  she  lis 
tened  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Saunders  gently  took 
the  child  from  her  arms,  and  bade  her  go. 

"  He  may  want  to  speak  of  some  business  matter," 
she  continued,  persuasively.  "  He  seems  quiet 
enough,  and  will  give  less  trouble  if  treated  well." 

She  was  at  last  convinced,  and,  opening  the  door, 
she  looked  out.  Steven  Rushford  stood  leaning 
carelessly  upon  the  gatepost,  waiting  for  her.  She 
turned  a  look  full  of  tender  love  and  fear  toward 
her  babe.  Her  mother  understood  and  assured  her 
that  she  should  not  pass  from  her  arms  until  her 
mother's  return. 

Thus  assured  she  passed  out  and  up  the  footpath 
toward  the  gate.  Steve  watched  her  as  she  ap 
proached,  and  when  at  last  she  looked  into  his  face, 
while  her  heart  fluttered  with  fear,  he  bent  upon 
her  one  of  his  old  looks  of  exultation  and  malice 
combined,  and  she  knew  in  a  moment  that  he  was 
again  playing  with  her,  and  enjoying  her  look  fo 
distress.  The  thought  stung  her  almost  to  mad 
ness,  and  indignation  took  the  place  of  fear.  Fas 
tening  her  eyes  upon  his  face,  she  drew  her  form  up 
to  its  full  height,  and  stood,  firm  and  defiant,  before 
him,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

He  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  surprise.  He  had 
never  seen  that  look  in  her  face  before,  and  could 
not  understand  it. 

"Seems  to  me  you  are  very  high  and  mighty  this 
morning,"  he  said  at  last. 


164  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"Is  that  what  you  wished  to  speak  about?"  she 
asked  in  a  cold  tone,  still  keeping  her  eyes  on  his 
face. 

Steve  began  to  appear  uneasy. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  in  a  confused  manner,  letting 
his  eyes  fall  to  the  ground.  "But  you  confused  me 
with  that  strange  look  of  yours.  One  would  think," 
in  an  injured  tone,  "that  you  did  not  look  upon  me 
as  a  gentleman  and  worthy  of  respect,"  and  he  cast 
a  furtive  look  toward  her. 

"Possibly  I  do  not,"  was  the  reply,  in  an  ironical 
tone,  never  removing  her  eyes  from  his  face.  She 
knew  what  that  injured  tone  meant. 

"I  wanted  so  much  to  talk  a  little  with  you,"  he 
continued,  still  in  a  subdued  manner  that  might 
have  deceived  even  Abbie  if  she  had  not  caught 
that  first  look,  but  now  it  only  made  her  more  firm 
and  determined. 

"Please  be  brief, then,"  she  said,  "for  this  keen 
air  does  not  make  standing  here  a  very  pleasant 
pastime." 

"You  are  getting  cold?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "Let 
us  go  in  and  sit  by  the  fire,"  and  he  started  to  open 
the  gate. 

"No,"  said  Abbie  firmly,  laying  her  hand  upon 
the  gate  to  prevent  its  being  opened. 

"  How  cruel  you  are,"  he  said,  in  a  disappointed 
tone,  "and  so  careless  of  your  own  health,  too!  I 
really  ought  not  to  allow  this  in  the  mother  of  my 
only  child." 


"IS    THAT   WHAT   YOU    WISHED    TO   SPEAK   ABOUT?" 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST.  165 

He  made  another  move  to  open  the  gate,  but  was 
arrested  by  her  next  words : — 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference,  as  I  may  not  live 
long  anyway,  you  know !  " 

His  face  turned  a  vivid  scarlet,  and,  turning  on  his 
heel,  he  stood  a  moment  with  his  back  toward  her, 
then,  turning  toward  her  again,  he  said  in  a  playful 
way: — 

"  Come,  come,  you  must  have  been  taking  a  dose 
of  razors  this  morning,  you  cut  me  up  so." 

"It's  a  pity  you  did  not  take  one  too." 

"What  makes  you  so  mighty  sharp,  anyhow?" 
he  asked  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  I  thought  you  never 
said  nothing  to  nobody." 

"  There  are  certain  schools  of  experience  which 
tend  to  loosen  one's  tongue,"  she  said  bitterly;  "but 
if  you  have  nothing  of  more  importance  to  say,  I 
would  rather  be  excused  from  further  conversation." 

Turning,  she  re-entered  the  house.  When  once 
there  she  took  a  woman's  mode  of  relief  from 
trouble,  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping. 
Soon  controlling  herself,  she  rose,  and,  wiping  the 
tears  from  her  eyes,  while  a  hard,  set  look  came  into 
her  face,  she  eagerly  took  the  babe  from  her  moth 
er's  arms  and  pressed  it  to  her  throbbing  heart.  An 
unnatural  glitter  came  into  her  eyes,  and  a  strange, 
almost  wild  look  overspread  her  whole  countenance. 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  pained  and  frightened  at  her 
manner,  and  in  a  soothing  tone  inquired  what  Rush- 
ford  had  wanted. 


i      /  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"  He  only  wanted  to  see  me  that  he  might  exult 
over  me,"  said  Abbie,  in  tones  that  were  almost 
fierce.  "As  I  came  near  him,  he  wore  the  same  ex 
pression  he  used  to  wear  when  I  had  to  set  my  teeth 
to  keep  from  crying  out  under  some  cruel  pain  he 
was  wantonly  inflicting.  I  suppose  he  thought,  be 
cause  I  came  at  his  bidding,  that  I  was  the  same 
submissive  creature  I  used  to  be,  but  I  think  he 
has  changed  his  mind  by  this  time." 

"  Did  he  have  no  errand  of  any  kind?" 

"None  at  all.  He  merely  commented  upon  my 
changed  manner,  and  pretended  to  be  very  anxious 
to  converse  with  me.  He  wanted  to  come  in  and 
sit  by  the  fire  while  he  talked,  as  he  was  very  anx 
ious  about  my  health." 

"But  he  has  been  forbidden  to  enter  the  house," 
interrupted  Mrs.  Saunders,  with  more  asperity  than 
was  usual  with  her. 

"  He  would  never  stop  for  that.  The  only  reason 
why  he  seems  to  heed  it  now  is  because  he  knows 
he  is  watched.  If  he  could  get  the  least  excuse,  he 
would  venture  even  now,  but  I  don't  think  he  will 
worry  about  my  health  any  more  right  away.  I 
think  I  have  convinced  him  that  I  have  a  memory, 
though  he  seems  to  ignore  the  fact.  I  will  give  him 
as  good  as  he  sends,  and  meet  him  with  the  weapons 
he  himself  has  furnished  me,  he  can  depend  upon 
that,"  she  added,  her  voice  growing  hard  and  de 
termined. 

Mrs.  Saunders  did  not  like  this  new  turn  in  her 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST.  1 67 

daughter's  feelings.  It  did  not  agree  with  her  idea 
of  feminine  dependence,  for  she  had  been  trained  in  a 
school  that  had  not  one  spark  of  the  now-called 
woman's  rights  in  its  make-up.  So  she  said,  rather 
hesitatingly,  "I  don't  think  you  had  better  see  him 
again." 

Abbie  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Dear  mother, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  I  thought  you  approved  of  my 
seeing  him  whenever  he  asked  for  me,  and  so  per 
haps  ward  off  greater  trouble." 

"So  I  did.  But  if  it  has  such  a  hardening  effect 
upon  your  heart,  perhaps  you  had  better  not  see  him 
again,  and  let  things  take  their  own  course." 

"  You  mistake  my  feelings  entirely,  dear  mother," 
said  Abbie  in  softer  tones.  "  I  am  sorry  I  have  given 
way  so.  It  was  not  ladylike  in  me,  I  must  confess. 
But  you  have  taught  me,  my  own  sweet  mother,  to 
be  so  quiet  and  submissive  in  all  things,  and  I  have 
tried  so  hard  (how  hard  you  can  never  know)  to 
follow  out  your  teachings  that  he  takes  my  actions 
to  mean  cowardice.  You  know  he  has  asserted 
that  all  this  trouble  has  been  caused  by  father's  in 
terference,  that  I  would  not  have  made  one  word  of 
complaint,  and  that  if  he  could  get  a  chance  to  talk 
to  me  he  could  persuade  me  to  drop  the  whole 
thing  and  go  back  to  him.  Now  he  knows  that  this 
is  false,  but  the  world  does  not,  and  I  have  decided 
that  he  shall  never  again  have  cause  to  say  that  I 
am  not  allowed  to  see  him  whenever  he  asks  forme 
until  all  is  settled.  Then  I  shall  drop  him  forever. 


1 68  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

It  is  very  unpleasant  to  be  obliged  to  talk  to  him, 
but  I  will  not  let  it  appear  that  my  father  forbids 
me  to  see  him  and  I  dare  not  disobey.  Besides, 
seeing  him  this  morning  has  driven  away  half  my 
fear  and  hesitancy,  for  that  something  terrible  is 
coming  I  feel  sure." 

A  shade  of  anxiety  crept  into  her  face,  which  a 
moment  before  glowed  with  firmness  and  resolution, 
and,  bowing  over  her  babe,  which  was  sweetly 
sleeping  on  her  lap,  she  almost  smothered  it  with 
kisses.  Mrs.  Saunders  looked  on  with  a  puzzled, 
pained  expression;  then,  rising,  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  her  daughter's  head,  and,  in  tremulous  tones, 
said: — 

"  My  poor  child,  I  will  not  oppose  you  in  this  your 
decision,  but  now  is  the  time  to  use  your  motto. 
If  you  truly  put  your  faith  in  God,  he  will  not  for 
sake  you  in  the  time  of  trouble.  I  have  often 
wondered  why  this  trouble  has  come  upon  us,  but 
we  must  not  murmur,  my  child.  God's  ways  are 
not  our  ways,  and  it  may  be  the  time  will  come 
when  we  shall  be  able  to  see  the  hand  of  God  even 
in  this  great  affliction." 

With  these  words  she  left  the  room. 

Abbie  sat  for  some  time  silent  and  subdued. 
She  could  not  help  looking  over  the  occurrences  of 
the  morning,  and  asking  herself  if  she  had  not 
trusted  more  in  her  own  strength,  during  her  con 
versation  with  Rushford,  than  in  her  God.  Had 
her  conduct  been  such  that  he  would  know  that  she 
had  been  and  learned  of  Him  ? 


RUSHFORD    APPEARS    AS    A    GHOST.  169 

Her  conscious  smote  her;  and,  though  she  did 
not  believe  that  she  had  been  wrong  in  the  theory 
she  had  advanced  to  her  mother,  yet  she  knew  that, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  willfully  given 
pain  to  another.  Though  the  circumstances  had 
been  such  as  to  seem  to  warrant  her  in  what  she 
had  said,  yet  she  knew  that  she  had  not  done  as 
she  would  be  done  by.  She  resolved  to  be  more 
guarded  in  the  future,  and,  remembering  in  whom 
her  strength  lay,  she  went  to  her  own  room,  and, 
falling  upon  her  knees,  she  asked  her  Father  in 
heaven  to  help  her  bear  her  troubles  in  a  Christian 
manner,  to  help  her  to  stand  firm  for  the  right  and 
eschew  the  wrong. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  strengthened  and  re 
freshed,  and  when  she  entered  the  room  where  her 
mother  was,  it  needed  not  words  to  tell  from  whence 
came  that  strength  and  peace  which  beamed  from 
her  countenance. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FURTHER   ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD. 

ft 

IME  passed.  Not  a  day  went  past  in  which 
she  and  her  friends  did  not  receive  some 
annoyance  from  Rushford.  He  seemed  to 
take  delight  in  pouncing  upon  them  in  unexpected 
moments,  and  setting  the  house  in  a  flutter,  taking 
care,  however,  not  to  commit  any  act  by  which  he 
might  be  again  arrested,  but  vexing  and  worrying 
the  family  as  much  as  possible. 

One  morning  the  family  were  awakened  by  hear 
ing  his  voice,  in  faint  and  plaintive  tones,  calling: 
"Abbie,  Abbie,  O  Abbie!  have  you  no  mercy  in 
your  heart  for  poor  me?  O  Abbie,  save  me,  your 
own  Steven!" 

The  voice  grew  fainter  and  fainter  until  it  died 
away  in  utter  silence.  Abbie,  who  had  been  awak 
ened  from  sound  slumber,  was  frightened  and  be 
wildered.  She  could  not  for  a  moment  tell  where 
she  was;  then,  as  her  memory  returned,  she  thought 
it  must  be  a  dream.  Hardly  had  she  come  to  this 
conclusion  [before  again  was  heard  that  low,  plain 
tive  voice,  calling  her  name  and  begging: — 

"Save  me !     O  Abbie, save  your  own  poor  Steven ! 


FURTHER   ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.        I/I 

Oh!  shall  I  never  see  you  again?"  and  again  the 
voice  died  away. 

In  spite  of  the  many  deceptions  that  had  been 
practiced  upon  her,  she  was  now  thoroughly  fright 
ened,  and,  springing  from  her  bed,  she  flew  to  the 
window,  and  gazed  eagerly  out  into  the  darkness. 

At  first  she  could  discern  nothing.  The  night  was 
dark  but  not  very  cold.  Snow  covered  the  ground, 
and  the  first  gleams  of  daylight  were  appearing  in 
the  east,  casting  a  faint  glimmer  of  light  over  the 
landscape. 

She  stood  peering  eagerly  out  into  the  darkness, 
when  suddenly  the  cry  was  repeated.  She  started, 
and  gazed  more  eagerly  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  sound  came.  Her  eyes  were  becoming  more 
accustomed  to  the  darkness ;  besides,  the  light  was 
growing  stronger,  and  she  soon  caught  sight  of  a 
dark  object  in  the  fence  corner,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  road.  She  watched  it  until  a  slight  move 
ment,  as  if  a  hand  had  been  raised  then  fallen  again 
for  want  of  strength,  assured  her  that  she  had  dis 
covered  the  source  of  the  plaintive  cry, 

All  were  now  astir  in  the  house.  A  light  gleamed 
from  the  lower  window,  and  she  could  hear  the 
voices  of  her  father  and  brothers  as  they  discussed 
the  probable  cause  of  the  strange  disturbance. 

"Looks  as  if  he  had  come  out  there  to  freeze  to 
death,"  said  Will  in  his  comical  way. 

"Took  a  strange  time  to  do  it,  then,"  replied  Raz- 
"I  don't  believe  it  would  freeze  a  toad  this  morn- 
ing." 


1/2  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"Seems  to  feel  very  bad  about  it,  to  judge  by  the 
noise  he  makes,"  continued  Will,  still  gazing  out  of 
the  window  at  the  dark  object  in  the  fence  corner. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  freezing,"  said  Raz  doubtfully. 

"  It  would  be  rather  hard  to  let  him  freeze  before 
our  very  eyes.  Let's  go  and  see." 

"I  don't  think  you  had  better,"  said  Mr.  Saun- 
ders.  "  Depend  upon  it,  this  is  another  foolish 
farce.  He  is  not  in  any  danger  of  freezing,  but  if 
you  should  go  to  him  he  would  no  doubt  feign  to 
be  dead,  so  that  you  might  bring  him  in,  and  so 
he  gain  admittance  to  the  house.  You  had  better 
wait  a  while  longer." 

From  her  window  above,  where  she  could  plainly 
see  every  motion  of  the  object  of  interest,  Abbie 
had  noticed  that  after  the  light  appeared  below,  the 
voice  across  the  way  had  rapidly  sunk  to  a  faint 
murmur.  Then  for  a  few  moments  all  was  still. 
So  long  did  the  time  seem  to  her  that  she  began  to 
fear  that  all  was  over. 

Her  heart  beat  wildly,  and  she  was  about  to  fly 
to  the  room  below  and  beg  her  brothers  to  go  to 
his  assistance,  when  there  was  a  slight  movement; 
the  head  was  cautiously  raised,  and  the  man  turned 
a  quick  look  toward  the  house,  then  resumed  his 
former  position.  The  movement  was  slight,  and 
only  for  a  moment,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  show 
her  that  the  object  of  her  solicitude,  so  far  from  be 
ing  dead,  as  she  had  feared,  was  on  the  alert,  and 
watching  the  house  as  closely  as  possible. 


FURTHER   ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.        173 

She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  and  began  to  notice 
the  surroundings  more  particularly.  She  noticed 
that  the  form  was  lying  upon  a  bed  of  fresh  hay, 
which  she  knew  did  not  lie  in  that  particular  corner 
the  night  before.  If  his  object  had  been,  as  she 
had  often  read  in  novels,  to  die  as  near  his  beloved 
wife  and  child  as  possible,  he  had  certainly  been 
very  thoughtful  of  his  clothes.  She  also  noticed 
that  he  had  on  a  heavy  overcoat,  was  muffled  up 
almost  to  the  eyes,  and  wore  heavy  overshoes, 
which  he  must  have  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 
If  he  had  come  out  there  to  freeze,  he  certainly 
meant  to  keep  warm  during  the  process. 

After  becoming  thoroughly  satisfied  that  another 
farce  was  being  played,  she  turned  to  her  babe, 
which,  awakened  by  her  hasty  movement,  had 
been  nestling  and  grunting,  turning  its  little  head 
one  way  and  another,  trying  to  find  its  usual  solace, 
but  who,  grown  impatient  at  its  want  of  success, 
was  now  expressing 'its  indignation  at  such  treat 
ment  by  crying  lustily.  Abbie  performed  a  hasty 
toilet,  and,  taking  the  child  in  her  arms,  descended 
to  the  room  below,  where  she  joined  her  brothers, 
who  looked  amused  though  somewhat  anxious. 

"Have  you  seen  the  show?"  asked  Raz  with 
rather  a  sickly  smile. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Abbie,  returning  the  smile  with 
interest  and  looking  very  much  as  though  she 
would  like  to  laugh  outright. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  grieve  you  much,"  said  he 


174  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

surprised  at  her  evident  amusement.  He  had 
expected  to  see  her  frightened,  and  to  hear  her 
beg  them  to  go  to  his  assistance.  Pie  forgot  that 
she  was  much  better  acquainted  with  the  man 
they  had  to  deal  with  than  he  could  well  be. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  she  in  a  tone  of  apology, 
"it  seems  so  ludicrous  for  a  man  to  borrow  clothes 
to  freeze  to  death  in  that  I  can't  help  laughing." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Raz,  more  aston 
ished  than  ever,  for  from  the  window  below  they 
could  not  see  him  plainly  enough  to  notice  these 
things. 

"  I  mean  that  he  is  muffled  up  to  the  eyes,  besides 
having  on  a  heavy  overcoat  and  overshoes,  which 
I  am  sure  he  does  not  own,  to  say  nothing  of  hav 
ing  a  fresh  bed  of  hay  to  lie  upon." 

The  boys  did  not  wait  for  her  to  finish  but  sprang 
up  the  stairs  and  hastened  to  the  window.  It  was 
broad  daylight  and  every  object  could  be  distinctly 
seen.  Sure  enough,  Abbie.  was  right.  As  the 
ludicrous  performance  became  clear  to  their  minds* 
they  burst  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter,  which  made 
the  house  ring.  They  thought  they  saw  the  form 
in  the  fence  corner  move  uneasily,  as  the  sound 
floated  out  on  the  clear  morning  air,  but  all  was 
instantly  quiet  again,  and  they  returned  to  the  room 
below. 

"  Did  yovi  ever  hear  of  such  a  performance?" 
asked  Will  as  they  entered  the  room.  "What  do 
you  suppose  is  his  object?" 


FURTHER    ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.       1/5 

"His  object  is  plain  enough,"  said  Raz.  "He 
hoped  to  be  brought  in  and  nursed  to  life  as  they 
do  in  storybooks,"  opening  the  door  and  looking 
out.  "  I  have  a  great  mind  to  give  him  a  good  horse 
whipping  for  his  impudence." 

"  He  would  be  apt  to  feel  about  as  much  of  that 
as  of  the  cold,"  said  Will  laughing. 

They  then  went  about  their  morning  work,  but 
kept  close  watch  of  the  form  in  the  fence  corner, 
which  by  no  means  seemed  to  like  its  present  posi 
tion.  Soon  a  hand  was  raised;  then  a  foot  was 
moved  to  a  different  angle;  then  he  raised  his  head 
as  if  just  awakening  from  sleep;  then  he  rose,  and, 
supporting  himself  upon  one  elbow,  stared  wildly 
around,  as  if  in  surprise;  then  he  got  upon  his 
hands  and  knees  and  crawled  a  few  steps;  finally 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  with  tottering  steps,  started 
toward  Mr.  Deering's. 

He  played  his  part  so  well  that  the  hearts  of  the 
watchers  began  to  beat  quicker,  fearing  lest  he  had 
really  been  suffering.  They  suspended  their  work 
and  watched  him  with  keen  interest,  as  he  stumbled 
along,  as  if  he  could  neither  see  nor  feel. 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  but  continued  to 
stumble,  rather  than  walk,  on  his  way.  When  he 
had  traversed  nearly  half  of  the  distance,  he  seemed 
to  lose  his  way,  and  turned  up  the  ravine;  and  at 
last  stumbled  and  fell,  just  as  he  was  entering  a 
small  grove,  and  did  not  get  up  again.  They  had 
all  watched  him  with  increasing  interest  up  to  this 


176  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

moment,  when  Will,  with  his  characteristic  enthu 
siasm,  exclaimed,  "Whew.  I  can't  stand  that!"  and, 
bounding  lightly  over  the  snow,  he  was  soon  by 
the  side  of  the  fallen  man,  who  slowly  rose  to  a  sit 
ting  posture  as  he  came  up,  and  again  stared  wildly 
around,  as  if  perfectly  bewildered. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Will  in  a 
gentle  tone,  for  he  never  could  kick  a  man  when  he 
was  down. 

Steve  cast  a  quick,  furtive  glance  at  him,  which 
puzzled  Will  greatly,  especially  when  it  soon  dis 
appeared,  and  a  dull,  expressionless  stare  took  its 
place. 

Will  was  surprised  into  a  moment's  silence,  then, 
offering  his  hand,  he  drew  Steve,  with  great  diffi 
culty,  to  his  feet,  and,  supporting  him,  led  him  to 
ward  Mr.  Deering's  house.  He  leaned  so  heavily 
upon  him  that  it  was  as  much  as  Will  could  do  to 
bear  his  weight,  and  he  was  much  surprised,  on 
nearing  Mr.  Deering's  house,  to  see  him  step  from 
his  side  with  a  firm  tread,  and,  after  giving  him  a 
look  which  Will  afterwards  said  made  him  "mad  all 
over,"  stalk  boldly  up  the  hill  and  into  the  house. 

Will,  crestfallen,  retraced  his  steps  toward  home, 
amid  shouts  of  laughter  from  Raz  and  Joe,  accom 
panied  by  some  pretty  loud  smiles  from  Abbie  and 
Roxy,  who  had  witnessed  the  whole  scene. 

"Why  didn't  you  help  him  the  rest  of  the  way?" 
called  Raz,  as  Will  drew  near.  "You  are  a  pretty 
fellow  to  leave  a  poor  man  in  such  a  helpless  con 
dition  to  climb  the  hill  alone." 


FURTHER    ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.       177 

Will  came  up  to  where  they  stood,  looked  at  one 
and  then  another  with  that  queer,  comical  look  he 
always  assumed  when  he  had  to  acknowledge  him 
self  beaten,  then  with  the  one  word,  "Sold!"  he 
passed  them  and  entered  the  house. 

Raz  and  Abbie  looked  at  one  another  a  moment 
in  silence,  then  Raz  said:  "I  hardly  think  Will  is 
the  only  one  that  might  cry,  '  Sold!'  I  would  not 
have  believed  the  man  capable  of  such  a  thing." 

"I  knew  him  to  be  capable  of  almost  anything," 
said  Abbie,  "yet  even  I  was  frightened  when  he  fell 
like  a  log  and  did  not  rise  again.  But  let  us  go  in, 
Roxy.  We  are  not  used  to  improving  our  health 
after  this  fashion." 

So  saying  they  entered  the  house,  where  Will 
was  recounting  his  adventure  to  his  father  and 
mother,  interspersed  with  the  comical  expressions 
and  grotesque  actions  by  which  he  always  managed 
to  shield  himself  from  ridicule. 

"If  you  had  seen  me,"  he  said,  "as  I  tugged  his 
great  form  along,  while  he  hardly  used  his  feet  at 
all,  and  did  not  seem  to  care  which  way  he  went, 
you  might  have  felt  like  laughing  at  my  grotesque 
appearance,  but  you  surely  would  have  thought,  as 
I  did,  that  his  feet  were  frozen  and  his  brain 
benumbed.  He  almost  pitched  me  head  first  into 
the  snow  several  times,  and  when  he  raised  himself 
from  my  shoulder,  I  thought  sure  he  was  going  to 
pitch  into  the  snow  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
But,  instead,  he  straightened  up  and  gave  me  a 
12 


ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

look  such  as  I  cannot  explain,  but  which  told  me  as 
plain  as  words  could  tell  that  I  was  'sold.'" 

"If  he  had  not  seen  you  all  watching,"  said  Mr. 
Saunders,  "he  would  have  gone  home  at  once." 

"I  suppose  so,  but  he  can't  fool  me  again,  that's 
certain." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  brother,"  said  Abbie. 
"I  have  seen  him  act  a  great  many  times,  yet  some 
how  I  always  think  that  this  time  it  may  be  real." 

"You  might  have  known,  all  of  you,  that  a  man 
could  not  freeze  such  a  morning  as  this,"  said  Mr. 
Saunders,  as  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  the  fire. 

Will  and  Abbie  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
meaning  smile.  They  no  doubt  thought  there  was 
some  difference  between  sitting  by  the  fire  in  a 
warm  room  and  lying  in  the  fence  corner.  But  if 
they  did,  they  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  say  so, 
and  breakfast  being  pronounced  ready,  all  repaired 
to  the  kitchen,  which  also  served  for  dining  room. 
They  were  soon  seated  around  the  table,  where  the 
events  of  the  morning  were  freely  discussed. 

"It  annoys  me  to  see  that  man  play  the  fool  in 
this  style,"  said  Raz,  after  they  had  been  talking 
some  time.  If  he  would  come  up  like  a  man  and 
fight  for  what  he  wants,  it  would  not  be  sc  disa 
greeable." 

"It  might  be  more  fatal,  at  least,"  said  his 
mother.  "Ido  hope  this  trouble  may  be  got 
through  with  without  shedding  blood." 

Raz  did  not  look  as  if  he  shared  her  sentiments 
He  was  getting  heartily  tired  of  this  child's  play, 


FURTHER    ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.        1/9 

but  he  was  doomed  to  bear  a  little  longer,  for  hardly 
had  they  begun  the  day's  work  before  Rushford 
walked  up  to  the  gate  (which  he  had  never  pre 
sumed  to  pass  since  the  shooting  affair)  with  a  firm 
step  and  unconscious  air,  and  asked  if  he  might  be 
permitted  to  speak  with  Abbie. 

She  was  informed  of  his  request,  and,  throwing  a 
shawl  over  her  head,  she  stepped  out  and  walked 
toward  him.  He  was  now  dressed  with  neatness 
and  care,  presenting  a  far  different  appearance  from 
that  of  the  morning. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  as  she  approached. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  replied,  looking  full  in  his 
face. 

"  How  are  you,"  he  continued. 

"Well,  thank  you,"  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 

He  seemed  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next,  and  she 
continued : — 

"  Have  you  anything  special  to  say  to  me  this 
morning?" 

"Are  you  in  any  special  hurry?"  asked  he  in  an 
aggravating  tone.  "If  you  are,  we  might  just  step 
into  the  house,  and  then  you  could  resume  the 
pleasant  occupation  of  nursing  baby." 

She  was  so  angry  at  this  speech  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  she  could  restrain  herself.  But  she  an 
swered  quietly,  as  before:  "That  is  indeed  a  pleasant 
occupation  to  me,  but  it  would  not  be  so  pleasant 
with  you  looking  on;  so  please  say  your  say  as 
quickly  as  possible,  for  my  reception  room  is  rather 
chilly  this  morning." 


ISO  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

She  glanced  past  him  at  the  pile  of  h  ay  in  the 
fence  corner  across  the  way.  His  eyes  followed 
hers,  then,  turning  quickly,  he  looked  into  her  face, 
which  was  lit  up  with  an  amused  smile.  A  flush  of 
either  anger  or  shame,  she  could  not  tell  which, 
crossed  his  face. 

Then,  in  tones  of  assumed  tenderness,  he  said: 
"O  Abbie,  are  we  then  parted  forever?  Is  there 
not  one  spark  of  love  left  in  your  heart  for  me?" 

He  paused.  She  was  standing  full  before  him 
now,  her  shawl  thrown  back,  while  the  winter  sun 
shone  over  brow  and  hair,  her  thin  cheeks  glow 
ing  from  the  cool  winter  air,  and  her  brown  eyes, 
which  were  fixed  full  upon  his  face,  wearing  some 
thing  of  that  look  which  he  had  often  seen  there  in 
former  days,  yet  with  a  mixture  of  something  else 
he  could  not  understand.  He  thought  she  had 
never  looked  so  beautiful  before,  and  moved  a  step 
nearer,  but  she  recoiled  as  if  from  a  serpent. 

"  Do  you  dare  speak  to  me  of  love?  "  she  cried, 
panting  as  if  for  breath.  "  You  who  never  knew 
the  meaning  of  that  sacred  word.  You  who,  when 
I  was  most  dependent  on  you  for  the  natural  fruits 
of  love, gloried  rather  in  inflicting  pain;  who  could 
leave  me  helpless  and  alone  for  the  most  flimsy  ex 
cuse;  who  knew  no  tenderer  way  to  show  your 
great  love  for  me  than  to  threaten  my  life  and  that 
of  my  child.  I  have  consented  to  come  at  your 
beck  and  call,  because  I  wished  to  give  you  fair 
play.  But  look  you,  if  this  subject  is  mentioned 


FURTHER    ANNOYANCES    FROM    RUSHFORD.       l8l 

again,  it  will  prove  our  last  interview,  for  I  neither 
can  nor  will  bear  this  from  you.  I  fear  and  loathe 
you  as  I  would  a  serpent." 

Then  she  continued  in  a  calmer  tone:  "Do  you 
suppose  that  your  recent  actions  have  tended  to 
augment  my  respect  for  you?  A  man  \vho  will 
stoop  to  wrap  in  white  sheets  and  play  the  ghost, 
or  lie  in  fence  corners  to  elicit  sympathy,  is  rather 
to  be  pitied  than  respected." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  in  feigned  sur 
prise.  "Have  you  been  seeing  ghosts?" 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  vehement  tone  or 
stinging  words,  but,  after  the  first  look  of  surprise, 
stood  calmly  waiting  till  she  was  done. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  have  seen  a  ghost.  But  it 
surprises  me  that  you  should  try  to  deceive  me  in 
this  way.  Have  I  been  so  superstitious  that  you 
thought  that  your  best  hold  on  me?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said  blandly.  "I 
cannot  think  what  you  are  driving  at.  You  seem  to 
talk  in  riddles  this  morning." 

"  Dp  you  pretend  to  tell  me  that  you  know  noth 
ing  of  the  ghost?" 

"I  most  certainly  do." 

She  looked  at  him  incredulously.  "  Perhaps  you 
know  nothing  of  lying  in  the  fence  corner,  either." 

"I  most  certainly  do  not,"  in  the  same  tone.  "I 
know  nothing  of  any  such  transaction,  and  I  can 
not  comprehend  why  you  should  speak  so  to  me." 

She  said  no  more.     What  was  the  use  of  trying 


1 82  ABBIE   SAUNDERS.  ' 

to  reason  with  or  show  this  man,  who  had  neither 
truth  nor  honor  in  his  make-up?  She  realized 
more  than  ever  the  utter  depravity  of  the  man.  She 
had  spoken  words  to  him  which  should  have 
brought  a  blush  of  shame,  at  least,  to  his  face,  yet 
he  had  not  seemed  to  hear  them.  He  had  positively 
denied  facts  of  which  he  could  but  be  cognizant. 

She  again  asked  him  his  object  in  calling,  and, 
receiving  no  satisfactory  answer,  she  left  him  and 
entered  the  house.  Then,  as  she  thought  over  the 
conversation,  she  felt  that  it  was  mere  nonsense  to 
endure  this  persecution;  that  she  must  either  rebel 
or  suffer  continual  annoyance.  Yet  what  could 
she  do  to  escape  it?  If  she  refused  to  see  him,  it 
would  tend  to  strengthen  the  report  that  she  was 
not  allowed  to  see  him. 

Something  seemed  to  whisper  to  her,  "  Be  true 
to  yourself,  and  trust  in  God,"  and  she  decided  to 
obey  the  voice  hereafter.  So  when  he  again  called 
for  her,  she  refused  to  see  him. 

Perhaps  the  reader  will  wonder  that  she  should 
see  him  at  all,  but  they  must  know  that  Abbie  was 
not  in  a  position  to  either  know  or  exact  her  rights, 
for  several  reasons. 

Firstly,  she  or  her  relatives  knew  little  of  the  re 
quirements  or  privileges  of  law,  having  never  been  in  a 
position  to  need  its  special  protection  before;  and, 
secondly,  they  were  in  a  new  country,  surrounded  by 
men  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  who  had  no  special 
interest  in  one  another,  and  who,  like  Deering,  en- 


FURTHER  ANNOYANCES  FROM  RUSHFORD.   183 

joyed  the  excitement  that  this  family  brawl,  as  they 
called  it,  furnished,  little  thinking  or  caring  for  the 
pain  it  cost  at  least  one  of  the  party.  They  would, 
had  he  committed  any  act  of  violence,  have  turned 
out  to  a  man  to  punish  him,  but  while,  as  they  said, 
he  did  no  particular  harm,  they  let  him  go  to  furnish 
sport  for  them. 

Abbie's  legal  advisers  were  so  far  away  that  she 
had  not  seen  them  except  upon  the  three  or  four 
occasions  when  she  had  been  called  to  town,  so  she 
did  not  know  that  it  would  be  much  better  not  to 
speak  to  him  at  all.  She  only  knew  that  she  hoped 
by  seeing  him  to  screen  her  father  from  blame,  and 
perhaps  save  a  collision  between  him  and  her  broth 
ers.  So,  although  the  decision  at  which  she  had  so 
slowly  arrived  at  was  the  one  she  should  have 
adopted  at  once,  it  took  considerable  determination 
to  adopt  it,  but  having  once  decided  she  carried  it 
out  with  firmness. 

And  she  had  need  of  firmness,  for  not  a  day 
passed  that  he  did  not  call,  and,  upon  being  refused, 
walk  up  and  down  the  road,  and  if  this  did  not  at 
tract  attention  enough,  sing  songs  or  make  speeches 
accompanied  by  ludicrous  performances. 

This  caused  much  gossip  in  the  neighborhood. 
Some  said  that  he  was  a  fool,  and  others  that  he 
must  be  crazy.  This  continued  for  some  days,  then 
all  at  once  he  disappeared,  and  Abbie  and  her  friends 
breathed  freely  once  more.  Rumors  were  abroad 
hat  a  mob  of  men  from  the  surrounding  country 


184  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

had  waited  upon  the  gentleman  and  informed  him 
that  to  their  mind  this  had  gone  on  long  enough, 
that  his  room  would  be  preferable  to  his  company, 
and  that  he  would  greatly  oblige  them  by  leaving 
the  country  at  once. 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ABBIE   VISITS   HER   BROTHER. 

OR  some  three  weeks  the  family  lived  in 
peace.  At  about  that  time  Anda  drove  up 
to  the  door  and  told  them  that  his  wife  had 
sent  for  Abbie.  She  heard  him  from  the  door,  and 
felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  which  was  followed  by  such 
a  sickening  sense  of  fear  that  she  turned  from  the 
door  without  even  answering  his  salutation,  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  Anda  followed  her,  and,  sitting 
down  by  her  side,  repeated  the  invitation,  adding, 
"  I  must  not  take  no  for  an  answer,  for  Clara  says  I 
can  have  no  supper  unless  I  bring  you." 

Still  she  did  not  speak,  and  all  noticed  that  her 
face  was  pale,  and  that  she  trembled  with  emotion. 

"Why,  sister,"  exclaimed  Anda,  "what  is  the 
matter?  You  are  not  afraid  of  me,  I  hope." 

She  smiled  as  if  ashamed  of  her  own  conduct, 
and  said  quickly,  "Oh,  no!  nothing  could  give  me 
more  pleasure,  and  yet — "  and  she  hesitated  as  if 
undecided  whether  to  speak  or  keep  silent. 

"Yet  what?"  said  Mrs.  Saunders  and  Anda  in  a 
breath. 

"I  don't  just  know,"  she  answered  thoughtfully. 


I  86  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"I  seemed  to  feel  such  a  pleasure  as  I  heard  your 
errand,  then  such  a  feeling  of  fear  and  dread  fol 
lowed  as  I  cannot  express.  Something  seems  to 
say  to  me,  '  Don't  go,  don't  go ! ' " 

Both  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  At  length  her 
mother  said:  "Pshaw!  you  are  only  nervous.  You 
have  been  shut  up  in  the  house  so  long  that  I  really 
think  it  will  do  you  good  to  go.  So  put  aside  your 
foolish  fears  and  go  along." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  go  to  bed  without  my 
supper,  do  you?"  said  Anda,  in  a  playful  tone. 
"You  might  have  some  pity  on  me,  at  least/' 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  needed  much  pity  in 
that  direction,"  said  Abbie,  trying  to  smile.  "I 
should  judge  by  your  looks  that  such  punishments 
had  not  been  very  frequent  in  your  case." 

Anda  laughed,  and  said:  "But,  seriously  now, 
sister,  say  you  will  go.  We  shall  be  much  disap 
pointed  if  you  do  not." 

She  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  although 
several  times  before  she  was  ready  she  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  up.  She  went,  however,  and  was 
soon  sitting  in  her  brother's  small  but  pleasant 
room,  talking  to  her  sister-in-law,  of  whom  she  was 
very  fond.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  some 
time,  and  were  not  disposed  to  let  the  time  go  to 
waste  now  they  were  together. 

Clara  had  a  baby  some  five  months  older  than 
Abbie's,  and  as  Abbie  had  not  seen  it  for  some  time, 
she  was  not  quickly  weaned  of  praising  its  bright 


ABBIE   VISITS    HER    BROTHER.  l8/ 

eyes,  its  dimpled  checks,  and  rosy  mouth,  which 
praise  was  received  in  good  faith  by  the  proud 
young  mother,  and  the  compliment  returned  in  like 
praise  of  the  little  Ella,  who  only  answered  them  by 
turning  her  great  wondering  eyes  on  her  aunt, 
much  as  she  would  have  done  on  any  object  that 
attracted  her  attention. 

The  little  Lucy  had  lost  all  her  first  shyness  long 
before  tea,  and  had  taken  a  decided  fancy  to  her 
Aunt  Abbie,  who  immediately  appointed  herself 
nurse  of  both  children  while  she  stayed,  which  her 
brother  and  sister  had  declared  should  be  for  several 
weeks. 

Tea  was  soon  pronounced  ready,  though  how  it 
had  been  prepared  amid  the  flutter  and  confusion 
of  Abbie's  arrival  can  hardly  be  told.  It  was  a 
happy  group  that  sat  around  the  table  that  night. 
Abbie  had  almost  forgotten  her  fears  at  leaving 
home,  and  was  enjoying  her  visit  very  much. 

Scarcely  had  they  left  the  table  when  the  door 
was  gently  opened,  and  Lizzie,  Clara's  younger 
sister,  came  in,  followed  by  several  young  girls  who 
were  schoolmates  of  hers,  and  who  had  accom 
panied  her  home  to  tea,  with  the  promise  that  she 
and  her  brother,  a  young  man  of  twenty,  should 
accompany  them  to  a  protracted  meeting  which  was 
being  held  in  the  neighborhood,  and  in  which  the 
young  people  were  much  interested.  On  hearing 
of  Abbie's  arrival  they  at  once  decided  that  she 
should  go  with  them,  and  had  come  in  a  body  to 
obtain  her  promise. 


1 88  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

She  at  once  decided  not  to  go.  She  had  not 
attended  a  public  gathering  of  any  sort  since  her 
trouble  began,  except  in  the  court  room,  and  the 
disagreeable  sensations  then  produced  had  not  left 
her.  She  pictured  to  herself  the  eyes  of  the  gaping 
crowd  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  shrank  from  it  in 
timid  fear.  The  question  was  not  so  easily  settled, 
however.  The  girls  were  old  friends.  They  loved 
her  and  sympathized  with  her  in  her  afflictions,  and 
were  determined  she  should  not  drop  out  of  society 
for  what  was  no  fault  of  hers. 

"Now,  Abbie,"  said  Lizzie coaxingly,  "you  surely 
will  not  disappoint  us.  Say  you  will  go.  Clara 
wants  to  go  I  know,  and  you  know  she  cannot  if 
you  refuse." 

Clara  gave  Lizzie  a  deprecating  look,  and  said 
quickly: — 

"  I  do  not  care  to  go  this  evening,  so  please  your 
self.  I  shall  enjoy  an  evening  at  home  with  you,  I 
am  sure." 

"She  only  says  that  for  manner's  sake,"  said 
Lizzie,  who  was  an  impulsive  girl,  and  who,  seeing 
the  doubtful  look  on  Abbie's  face,  did  not  mean  to 
lose  her  advantage.  "  She  'most  always  goes,  and 
the  new  preacher  is  to  be  there  to-night,  so  I  know 
she  wants  to  go." 

"Do  go,"  said  Rose  Turner.  "You  ought  not  to 
stay  away  from  church,  you  know.  The  minister 
said  last  night  that  the  church  was  the  best  place 
in  the  world  for  anyone  in  trouble." 


ABBIE   VISITS    HER    BROTHER.  189 

"And  I  know  you  will  like  the  new  minister," 
urged  Jane  Corbit.  "  I  met  him  at  Aunt  Janie's  at 
noon,  and  he  is  just  splendid." 

"I  would  not  stay  at  home  and  make  a  nun  of 
myself  for  any  man,"  snapped  Betsy  Green. 

"Nor  I  either." 

"Say  you  will  go,"  again  pleaded  Lizzie,  who 
never  could  give  up  anything  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon. 

She  was  undecided.  She  believed  her  sister 
would  like  to  go,  and  did  not  like  to  stand  in  the 
way,  besides,  she -really  longed  to  go  herself.  She 
dearly  loved  the  house  of  God.  So,  turning  to 
Clara,  she  said,  "I  will  go  if  you  will." 

"But  do  you  really  wish  to  go?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  enjoy  myself  very  much." 

"So  you  will  go,"  cried  Lizzie.  "I  knew  you 
would.  Now,  girls,  you  promised  to  help  me  do  up 
the  work,  you  know,  and  it  is  time  to  be  at  it,  for  I 
must  not  leave  anything  for  mother  to  do." 

Away  they  went,  and  were  soon  at  work.  Will 
ing  hands  make  light  work,  and  leaving  them  we 
will  return  to  Clara  and  Abbie,  who  were  also  busy. 

Clara  was  bustling  about  doing  untold  little 
household  things,  for  who  ever  heard  of  a  woman 
leaving  home,  even  for  a  few  hours,  without  an 

o 

hour's  bustle  of  putting  things  to  rights? 

Abbie  washed,  brushed,  and  dressed  the  little 
Lucy,  who  bore  it  all  with  a  heroism  that  called 
forth  loud  praises  from  her  aunt,  who,  when  she 


190  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

had  tied  the  last  bow,  held  her  up  to  look  at  her, 
and  pronounced  her  the  sweetest  darling  in  the 
world.  The  fond  mother  said  nothing,  but,  snatch 
ing  a  kiss  from  its  rosy  mouth,  continued  her  prep 
arations. 

By  the  time  the  large  old-fashioned  sleigh  drove 
up  to  the  door,  all  were  ready,  and,  seating  them 
selves  upon  the  fresh  hay,  they  covered  up  closely 
with  robes,  and  were  prepared  to  resist  Jack  Frost 
for  a  much  longer  ride  than  they  then  contemplated. 

The  driver  put  whip  to  his  horses  and  away  they 
flew  over  the  snow,  the  merry  jingling  of  the  bells 
keeping  time  to  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  as 
they  sped  swiftly  along.  They  reached  their  desti 
nation,  and  were  soon  seated  among  the  crowd. 

The  evening  passed  off  much  as  usual  in  such 
places.  Abbie  enjoyed  it  very  much,  and  was  in 
clined  to  think  that  her  friends  were  right  in  their 
new  preacher. 

When  Abbie  was  again  alone,  she  thought  over 
the  transactions  of  the  day,  as  was  her  custom. 
She  remembered  her  fear  at  leaving  home,  her  ride 
over  the  snow,  which  she  had  hardly  taken  time  to 
enjoy  in  her  feverish  haste  to  be  at  her  journey's 
end.  She  thought  of  all  that  had  happened  since  her 
arrival,  and  wondered  that  she  had  been  so  happy. 
It  was  indeed  the  happiest  day  she  had  passed  for 
many  weeks.  And  it  was  also  the  happiest  for 
many  weeks  to  come. 

The  next  morning  an  invitation  was  received  by 


ABBIE    VISITS    HER    BROTHER.  19! 

Clara  from  her  mother,  Mrs.  Thomas,  for  her  and 
Abbie  to  spend  the  day  with  her.  Accordingly,  at 
an  early  hour  they  set  out,  and  were  soon  seated 
in  her  large  old-fashioned  room.  This  room  was 
about  twenty-five  feet  long  by  twenty  wide.  It 
served  for  kitchen,  parlor,  and  bedroom  combined. 
A  row  of  beds  ran  across  one  side  of  the  room. 
These  were  surrounded  by  heavy  old-fashioned 
curtains,  reaching  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor.  A 
large  cook  stove  with  elevated  oven  stood  near  the 
middle  of  the  room,  looking  much  as  if  it  had 
grown  there.  In  all  the  many  years  that  Abbie 
had  visited  that  house,  she  never  saw  it  moved,  even 
an  inch,  from  its  accustomed  place.  It  had  stood 
there  immovable  on  the  old  kitchen  floor  until 
the  soft  wood  of  which  the  floor  was  made  had 
worn  away,  leaving  the  stove  legs  upon  small  em 
inences  resembling  miniature  mountains.  This 
served  as  a  partition  between  the  common  work 
room  and  the  old  lady's  sitting  room. 

To-day  Mrs.  Thomas  had  brought  out  the  old 
cradle  which  had  done  service  for  Clara  and  all  the 
other  young  Thomases,  and  which,  though  her 
youngest  was  then  six  years  old,  had  never  been 
dismissed  from  the  house,  but  occupied  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  great  room,  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  be  pressed  into  service.  And  it  was  not 
idle  to-day. 

Mrs.  Thomas,  who,  unlike  most  mothers,  never  did 
housework  when  any  of  the  girls  were  at  home,  sat 


192  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

serenely  knitting,  while  Clara  bustled  about  to  pre 
pare  dinner,  and  Abbie  was  perfectly  happy  in  pos 
session  of  both  babies. 

"Why,  how  motherly  you  look!"  said  Clara 
laughing.  "You  ought  to  put  them  both  in  the 
cradle  and  borrow  mother's  knitting.  Then  the 
picture  would  be  complete." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Abbie.  "But  mother  loves 
her  knitting  best,  while  I  love  babies  best;  so  you 
see  we  are  both  satisfied." 

Abbie  had  not  felt  so  happy  and  secure  for  a  long 
time.  She  had  almost  forgotten  that  there  was 
trouble  in  the  world,  or  that  she  had  aught  to  do 
but  be  happy. 

But  we  must  bid  adieu  to  this  happy  home  and 
see  if  we  can  ascertain  the  cause  of  Rushford's 
absence. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

RUSHFORD'S    PLOTS. 

PON  receiving  his  visitors  that  night,  and 
hearing  their  errand,  he  had  immediately 
called  upon  his  attorney,  and,  telling  a  tale 
to  best  suit  his  fancy,  asked  for  his  advice  as  to  his 
future  course. 

"Well,  what  do  you  wish  to  do?"  asked  Cross- 
well.  "  You  have  not  been  successful,  it  seems,  in 
persuading  your  wife  to  withdraw  her  suit." 

"  No,"  said  Steve,  with  a  despondent  air,  "I  have 
been  able  to  do  nothing  with  her.  The  fact  is,  she 
is  so  set  up  by  her  folks  that  she  will  hardly  give 
me  a  word.  I  feel  perfectly  sure  if  it  was  not  for 
their  influence,  I  could  easily  persuade  her.  Why, 
you  have  no  idea  what  a  tractable  creature  she  is. 
She  would  obey  me  like  a  child.  And  so  she  will 
them,  while  she  is  with  them.  Confound  it!"  he 
continued  in  an  excited  tone,  rising  and  pacing  the 
floor,  a  look  of  demoniac  rage  taking  possession 
of  his  face,  "  what  a  fool  I  was  to  tempt  her.  I 
might  have  known,"  he  muttered  between  his  set 
teeth,  "  that  I  could  not  tempt  her  if  she  did  not 
think  it  right,  and  that  if  she  did  think  it  right  I 
13  (193) 


194  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

could  not  stop  her.  She  is  stubborn  as  a  mule 
where  duty  is  concerned.  'Twas  the  knowledge  of 
this  that  made  me  long  to  make  her  act  contrary 
to  her  convictions  for  once.  Fool  that  I  was!"  and 
he  ground  his  teeth  with  rage. 

Crosswell  sat  furtively  watching  him,  as  he  pacec. 
up  and  down,  his  lips  sometimes  moving,  though 
no  sound  escaped  them.  He  did  not  exactly  like 
his  strange  client;  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  not  been 
told  the  whole  truth,  and  would  have  thrown  up 
the  case  at  once  but  that  his  motto  was  to  succeed 
in  whatever  he  undertook,  whether  right  or  wrong. 

As  Rushford  made  a  short  turn  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  he  met  the  eyes  of  his  attorney 
fixed  upon  him.  For  a  moment  they  gazed  into 
one  another's  eyes.  Crosswell's  look  was  keen  and 
searching,  while  Rushford's  eyes  quailed,  and  he  let 
them  fall  to  the  floor,  then,  suddenly  collecting  him 
self,  he  crossed  the  room,  and,  sitting  down,  gazed 
fixedly  into  the  fire.  The  expression  of  his  face 
gradually  changed,  and  when  he  again  looked  up 
his  eyes  were  moist,  and  his  face  wore  a  beseeching 
look,  as  he  said: — 

"O  Crosswell,  you  must  help  me!" 

"Help  you  do  what?"  asked  Crosswell  with  his 
characteristic  smile.  "  Do  you  wish  to  break  the 
neck  of  that  little  wife  of  yours?" 

Steve  hardly  knew  what  answer  to  make  to  such 
a  question,  and  as  he  hesitated  Crosswell  continued: 
"You  look  fierce  enough  for  anything  just  now. 


RUSH  FORDS    PLOTS.  195 

But  perhaps  that  was  not  what    you  were  think 
ing  of." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Steve,  somewhat  relieved- 
"But  I  say,  Crosswell,  you  must  help  me  get  her." 

"Of  what  use  will  it  be?  She  would  only  give 
you  trouble." 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  don't  mean  to  give 
up  the  case,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  really  like  to,  but  then,  you  see,  she  has 
it  all  in  her  favor,  and  if  you  can't  get  her  to  change 
her  mind,  what's  the  use  of  more  cost?" 

"Oh,  now,"  said  Steve  in  an  injured  tone,  "you 
know  everything  I  owned  in  the  world  is  in  your 
hands,  and  it's  too  bad  to  leave  a  fellow  in  the 
lurch!" 

"I  haven't  said  I  was  going  to  leave  you,  have 
I?"  said  Crosswell.  "I  have  no  idea  of  doing  any 
such  thing.  But  it's  pretty  hard  to  sit  still  and  see 
everything  going  against  a  fellow.  I  don't  think  you 
have  been  hardly  fair  with  me  from  the  beginning." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Steve  uneasily.  He  did  not 
quite  like  Crosswell's  manner  to-night.  "  Have  I 
not  given  you  every  last  cent's  worth  of  property  I 
had  in  the  world?  Haven't  I  obeyed  you  like  a 
child?" 

"Oh, yes,"  said  Crosswell  with  a  sneer,  "you  have 
certainly  been  childlike  enough.  But  as  to  property, 
I  think  the  less  we  say  about  it  the  better.  It  is 
poor  enough  pay  for  what  I  have  done,  to  say  noth 
ing  about  what  is  to  come.  You  know  I  am  doing 
this  job  more  to  help  you  than  to  make  money." 


196  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"  I  wish  I  could  earn  a  team  and  wagon  as  eas 
ily,"  said  Steve  doggedly. 

"Well,  well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  that.  I 
have  no  idea  of  giving  up  the  case.  I  would  rather 
be  beat  than  do  that.  But  as  we  do  not  want  to  be 
beat,  we  must  do  something  to  turn  the  tables  in  our 
favor." 

At  this  assurance  the  sullen,  fierce  expression  on 
Rushford's  face  softened.  He  had  begun  to  think 
that  Crosswell  meant  to  give  up  the  case,  and  he 
was  already  planning  a  revenge.  Crosswell  had 
carefully  scanned  his  face  and  had  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  his  client  would  be  easier  coaxed  than 
driven.  In  other  words,  if  he  wished  to  control 
him,  it  must  be  rather  through  cunning  and  flattery 
than  by  force. 

He  now  continued:  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  as  matters  now  stand  she  is  sure  to  gain  the 
suit.  Every  item  of  testimony  is  in  her  favor.  Be 
sides,  the  whole  town  and  neighborhood  are  up  in 
arms  and  ready  to  fight  for  her.  I  have  thought  of 
trying  the  insanity  dodge,  but  it  won't  work,  I  am 
sure,  so  had  better  be  let  alone.  Now,  the  fact  is 
we  have  got  to  do  something  to  turn  the  tables  in 
our  favor,  or  we  are  Sure  to  lose  the  suit.  And 
what  that  something  is  to  be  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
most  important  question  just  now." 

He  looked  keenly  at  Rushford,  who  had  sat 
watching  him  with  a  half-sullen,  half-eager  look  as 
he  talked,  and  who  now  started  up  and  said,  "  Well  ?  " 

"Well,"  echoed  Crosswell  coolly. 


RUSHFORDS    PLOTS.  197 

Steve,  who  was  not  in  the  best  humor  in  the 
world,  was  annoyed  at  this,  and  continued  savagely, 
"  Well,  how  do  you  propose  to  settle  this  important 
question?" 

"I  had  a  plan  before  you  came,"  said  Crosswell 
hesitatingly,  "but  perhaps  it  would  not  be  best" — 

He  paused  as  if  considering  the  subject.  Rush- 
ford  waited  impatiently  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
asked,  "And  what  is  your  plan,  and  why  will  -it  not 
work?" 

"I  did  not  say  it  would  not  work,"  replied  Cross- 
well  with  provoking  coolness.  "  I  think  it  is  the 
only  plan  that  w?ll  work." 

"Then  what  more  do  you  want?" 

"Well,  the  fact  is,"  continued  Crosswell,  still  in 
that  slow,  hesitating  way  that  irritated  his  client  so 
much,  "I  thought  my  plan  a  brilliant  one  until  you 
came,  but  now  I  feel  somewhat  unsettled  concerning 
the  propriety  of  the  move.  I  fear  it  will  not  be 
best." 

"But  why  will  it  not  be  best?"  cried  Rushford, 
vexed  at  these  to  him  unintelligible  words.  "And 
what  is  your  plan.  Out  with  it.  I  am  ready  for 
any  proposal  that  will  help  me  get  that  girl  again." 

"And  the  precious  babe,"  sneered  Crosswell, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

Rushford  gave  a  sudden  hitch  in  his  chair  and 
exclaimed:  "Bother  the  baby!  But  then  I  suppose 
I  shall  have  to  take  it  if  I  do  her." 

Crosswell  looked  at  him  keenly.     "  I  believe  I  lied 


198  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

for  you  on  that  head  about  as  strong  as  I  ever  did 
for  any  man,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal." 

"Well,  what  is  your  plan?"  again  asked  Steve. 
"  You  can  at  least  tell  me  that." 

"I  will  on  conditions." 

"What  conditions.  I  am  ready  to  make  any  con 
ditions  that  will  insure  success." 

"Too  ready, 'I  fear.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  The  conditions  must  be  made  in  good  faith, 
for  I  am  not  willing  to  harm  the  little  woman,  even 
to  gain  the  suit,  and  if  you  do  not  love  her,  and 
will  not  treat  her  well,  the  whole  thing  is  better  as 
it  is.  They  call  me  a  hard  case,  and  perhaps  I  am, 
but  it  goes  mightily  agin'  the  grain  to  plot  against 
a  woman,  especially  when  I  know  she  is  in  the 
right." 

"  Of  course  I  love  her,"  said  Rushforcl.  "  It  don't 
seem  as  if  I  could  live  without  her.  As  for  my 
former  treatment,  it  was  not  fair,  I'll  own.  But  I 
have  learned  a  lesson  that  I  shall  not  soon  forget, 
and  if  you  will  help  me  get  her,  she  shall  be  well 
treated,  I  assure  you." 

"And  you  think  she  loves  you  and  will  be  con 
tented  if  once  you  get  her  away  from  her  folks?" 

"  I  do,"  said  Rushford  with  more  confidence  in 
his  voice  than  he  really  felt. 

"And  you  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you 
will  treat  her  well  ? " 

"I  do." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you  my  plan.     You  know  that, 


RUSHFORDS    PLOTS.  199 

according  to  law,  a  man  has  a  right  to  full  possession 
of  his  wife  and  children,  and  whatever  he  may  do 
no  man  can  take  them  from  him  unless  she  will 
testify  against  him,  and  the  law  does  not  force  her 
to  do  this.  Now  if  you  can  get  peaceable  posses 
sion  of  her,  and  then  persuade  her  not  to  appear 
against  you  at  the  trial,  you  are  all  right.  I  don't 
see  any  other  way  to  insure  success." 

"But  how  can  this  be  accomplished?" 

"You  say  you  have  friends  in  Wisconsin?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  get  some  of  them  to 
help  you?" 

"  I  think  I  could." 

"They  have  teams,  I  suppose." 

"Yes." 

Still  Crosswell  hesitated  to  disclose  his  plan.  He 
sat  for  some  moments  pondering  over  the  matter, 
and  then  said: — 

"Yes,  I  think  it  will  do.  Indeed,  it  is  our  only 
plan  of  success,  and  it  may  succeed  if  you  manage 
it  right,  and  do  nothing  by  which  they  could  snap 
you  up." 

"Pray  explain  your  plan,  then,"  said  Rushford, 
rubbing  his  hands  with  satisfaction. 

"Well,  my  plan  is  just  this:  You  must  go  im 
mediately  to  your  old  home,  for  there  is  no  time  to 
lose.  This  you  can  do  in  two  or  three  days  on 
foot.  When  once  there  you  can  tell  such  a  tale  as 
will  best  suit  your  fancy,  and  if  possible  persuade 


2OO  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

some  of  them  to  help  you  rescue  your  poor  dis 
tracted  wife  from  her  cruel  father.  Procure  a  team 
and  driver,  and  return  as  soon  and  as  secretly  as 
possible.  Then  watch  your  chance  and  get  hold  of 
the  child.  This  they  cannot  force  away  from  you 
Then  give  your  wife  the  choice  between  a  life  with 
you  in  possession  of  her  child  or  with  her  friends, 
without  it.  My  word  for  it,  she  will  go  with  you, 
and  when  you  get  her,  if  you  cannot  keep  her  then 
you  don't  deserve  to  have  her.  If  she  goes,  as  I 
feel  sure  she  will,  it  will  put  a  stop  to  the  proceed 
ings  of  the  court  at  present." 

Rushford  listened  eagerly  until  he  had  finished, 
then,  springing  up  in  excitement,  he  cried:  "That  is 
just  it.  I'll  do  it,  sure  as  guns.  Give  me  your 
hand,  old  boy.  You're  a  regular  brick  after  all. 
Give  me  your  hand,  I  say." 

Grasping  Crosswell's  hand  he  shook  it  until  he 
called  out  to  him  to  stop.  Then,  springing  to  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  he  danced  and  wriggled  like  a 
madman;  then,  turning  to  Crosswell,  who  was  again 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  did  not  understand  his 
client,  he  said  apologetically :  "  I  am  so  happy,  old 
fellow,  you  know.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  her  and  it 
was  all  over." 

"  You  never  will  get  her  if  you  don't  control 
yourself,"  said  Crosswell  shortly. 

He  might  have  added  that  he  hoped  he  would 
not,  for  the  conviction  was  fast  taking  hold  of  him 
that  his  client  was  a  rascal.  However,  it  was  too 


RUSHFORDS    PLOTS.  2OI 

late  to  mend  matters,  so  he  said:  "Where  will  you 
stay  to-night  ?  It  is  late  to  goto  your  boarding 
place.  I  might  give  you  a  bed  here,  but  my  wife 
does  not  like  my  being  mixed  up  with  your  affairs, 
and  might  comb  my  hair  for  me." 

"That  would  make  a  decided  improvement  in 
your  looks,"  laughed  Steve.  "But  I  must  decline 
the  invitation,  much  good  as  it  might  do,  for  I 
could  not  sleep  to-night.  It  would  be  simply  im 
possible.  I  will  start  immediately  on  my  journey. 
Good-night." 

He  walked  out  into  the  night  and  snow  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  he  carried  when  he  entered  the 
house  of  his  counselor  that  evening.  Hope  filled 
his  heart  and  lightened  his  step,  as  he  thus  began 
a  journey  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  on  foot, 
in  the  dead  of  night  and  the  dead  of  winter. 

Hope  of  what?  that  he  might  again  press  his 
wife  and  child  to  his  breast,  and  shield  them  from 
care  and  sorrow? — No,  but  hope  that  he  might 
triumph  over  those  who  were  protecting  them  from 
his  cruel  power. 

Such  were  his  thoughts.  But  he  felt  that  it  would 
not  do  to  tell  his  relatives  the  truth  in  regard  to  his 
trouble.  He  must  concoct  some  story  that  would 
tend  to  make  them  sympathize  with  him,  and  also 
believe  that  Abbie  was  sorry  she  had  left  and  would 
gladly  come  away  with  him. 

Leaving  him  thus  occupied  we  will  return  to  the 
room  he  has  just  left. 


2O2  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

As  the  door  closed  after  his  retreating  form, 
Crosswell  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  he  did  not 
feel  so  much  relieved  as  he  could  wish.  He  knew 
that  he  had  committed  a  dastardly  act;  that  he  was 
helping  a  bold,  bad  man. 

"But  what  of  that?"  he  asked  himself,  trying  to 
still  his  troubled  conscience.  "  Women  often  love 
and  cling  to  their  husbands  when  they  are  as  badly 
treated." 

He  had  known  them  to  leave  their  husbands  and 
fight  them  fiercely  in  court,  then  make  up  and  seem 
as  happy  as  ever.  If  Abbie  Rushford  was  like  these, 
the  sooner  she  made  up  the  better. 

But  this  reasoning  did  not  still  his  conscience, 
for  he  had  a  conscience,  though  he  did  not  often 
listen  to  its  still  small  voice.  He  thought  of  Abbie's 
sad,  tearful  face ;  of  the  gaze  she  fixed  upon  him 
when  he  was  making  his  first  plea;  of  the  sad, 
hunted  expression  of  those  great  brown  eyes  as 
she  sat  and  heard  him  extol  the  virtues  of  his 
client ;  the  wonder  that  was  depicted  on  her  face  as 
he  talked,  making,  as  he  knew,  the  white  black 
and  the  black  white;  of  the  fire  that  seemed  to 
burn  in  those  orbs  as  he  spoke  of  the  tender  hus 
band  and  father  deprived  of  the  society  of  his  wife 
and  child. 

He  had  known  from  that  moment  that  she  had 
not  complained  without  a  cause.  Yet  here  he  was 
helping  her  enemy  plan  mischief  against  her.  He 
was  angry  at  himself  for  what  he  had  done,  but  it 
was  now  too  late  to  mend  matters. 


RUSHFORDS   PLOTS.  2O3 

He  had  felt,  as  he  looked  at  Rushford,  that  it  was 
a  nefarious  plan,  and  had  resolved  not  to  adopt  it, 
yet  he  had  been  led  on,  by  his  own  desire  to  con 
quer  and  the  fair  promises  of  his  client,  to  divulge 
the  plan.  That  it  would  be  carried  out  if  possible 
he  was  certain,  and  he  retired  that  night  much  dis 
satisfied  with  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT. 

)GTT  Rushford  did  not  know  this.  He  pressed 
steadily  on  through  the  long,  dark  night, 
and  when  the  sun  cast  its  first  rays  over 
the  earth,  he  was  far  on  his  way.  Being 
hungry  and  weary,  he  stopped  at  a  farmhouse  and 
called  for  breakfast.  This  was  provided,  and,  after 
refreshing  himself  and  resting  for  an  hour  by  the 
fire,  he  pressed  on  again.  He  had  told  the  lady  of 
the  house  a  sad,  pitiful  story  of  misfortunes,  and  she 
had  not  only  given  him  his  breakfast  but  a  lunch 
eon  also. 

He  traveled  on  in  this  manner  until  near  home, 
when,  finding  that  a  brother  lived  near  where  he 
was,  he  decided  to  go  to  him  for  aid.  This  brother 
had  known  Abbie  in  Illinois  and  liked  her  very 
much.  He  had  since  married  an  old  friend  of  the 
family,  and  when  Steve  told  them  that,  owing  to  a 
trivial  misunderstanding  between  him  and  her  father, 
which  grew  into  a  family  quarrel,  she  had  gone 
home  in  a  fit  of  anger,  but  had  since  been  very 
sorry  for  her  foolish  act  and  was  ready  to  come 
back  if  he  would  bring  her  away  from  them  so 
there  need  be  no  more  trouble,  they  sympathized 
(204) 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  2O$ 

with  him  and  were  ready  to  do  all  they  could  to 
help  him. 

It  was  settled  that  in  two  or  three  days  Steve 
would  set  out  on  his  return,  accompanied  by  his 
brother.  He  desired  of  his  brother  that,  as  it  would 
be  more  pleasant  for  his  wife  when  she  came,  they 
should  say  nothing  of  his  trouble  to  any  of  their 
friends.  To  this  both  he  and  his  wife  agreed,  and 
in  their  hearts  thought  their  brother  very  thought 
ful,  and  felt  sure  he  must  love  his  wife  very  dearly. 

He  talked  pathetically  of  his  babe,  which  he  had 
hardly  been  permitted  to  see  since  its  birth,  and 
seemed  so  happy  at  thought  of  the  reunion  that 
they  accepted  his  statement  as  true  without  ques 
tion. 

He  visited  his  parents  and  sister,  telling  them  he 
had  decided  to  come  and  live  among  them,  and 
that  Bill  was  going  with  him  after  his  wife  in  a  few 
days,  who  was  stopping  at  her  father's.  So  smooth 
was  his  speech  and  manner  that  none  suspected 
anything  but  unalloyed  pleasure.  He  was  cordially 
invited  by  his  sister  and  her  husband  to  make  their 
house  his  home  until  he  should  see  fit  to  settle  in 
one  of  his  own. 

To  this  he  gladly  consented  and  promised  to 
bring  his  wife  there  on  her  arrival. 

This  sister  had  early  in  life  married  a  steady,  in 
dustrious  young  man  by  the  name  of  Harrison. 
He  was  a  wheelwright  by  trade,  and,  being  an 
honest,  industrious  man,  had  prospered  in  business 


2C)6  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

and  was  now  settled  in  a  small  village  where  his 
wife  could  enjoy  the  society  of  her  relatives.  He 
owned  the  house  and  lot  where  he  lived,  besides  a 
commodious  shop,  and  had  a  little  money  laid  by 
for  a  rainy  day.  He  was  much  respected  by  all  his 
neighbors.  His  wife  was  an  excellent  housewife, 
a  gentle,  loving  mother,  who  trained  up  her  children 
in  the  way  they  should  go,  and  was  beloved  by  all 
who  knew  her. 

Thus  it  was  that  Steven  Rushford  the  more  read 
ily  accepted  her  kind  invitation  because  he  trusted 
much  in  her  influence  to  make  Abbie  consent  to 
remain,  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  meant 
to  bring  her  there  against  her  will.  Though  he  did 
not  for  a  moment  believe  that  his  sister  would  con 
sent  to  help  him  if  she  knew  the  true  state  of  af 
fairs,  yet,  trusting  much  in  Abbie's  submissive  dis 
position,  which  had  always  yielded  to  him  without 
demur,  he  hoped  so  to  intimidate  her  before  her 
arrival  that  she  would  not  disclose  the  past.  He 
expected  her  to  be  dissatisfied.  But  this  he  would 
charge  to  the  score  of  homesickness,  and  thus  in 
duce  his  sister  to  use  all  her  arts  to  make  her  con 
tented  with  her  lot.  He  had  his  plans  well  laid 
and  felt  sure  of  success. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  troubled  him.  He 
had  not  been  straightforward  and  honest  with  his 
brother  Bill.  Instead  of  placing  the  facts  before 
him,  he  had  led  him  to  believe  that  Abbie  had  no 
quarrel  with  him,  but  that,  if  the  chance  was  offered, 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  2O/ 

she  would  gladly  leave  her  own  people  and  cling  to 
him.  He  dared  not  even  hint  that  this  was  not  the 
case  lest  his  brother  should  refuse  his  assistance. 
So  he  kept  his  own  counsel,  and  in  due  time  they 
were  on  the  road. 

The  nearer  they  arrived  to  their  destination  the 
more  Rushford's  mind  was  troubled  with  doubts 
and  fears.  His  face  wore  a  gloomy,  troubled  ex 
pression,  which  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  his 
brother,  who  at  once  asked  the  cause. 

"  I  fear  that  we  shall  fail  at  last,"  was  the  answer, 
in  a  despondent  tone. 

"Pshaw,  cheer  up,  man!"  laughed  Bill.  "This 
weather  is  enough  to  make  any  man  feel  blue,  I 
own,  but  you  must  not  lose  heart,  old  fellow.  Think 
how  glad  Abbie  will  be  to  see  you  again." 

Rushford  winced  at  this.  He  well  knew  there 
would  be  more  sorrow  than  joy  at  sight  of  him,  but 
Bill  must  not  know  this  until  she  was  safe  in  his 
hands.  But  how  he  was  to  accomplish  his  object 
without  confiding  in  his  brother  was  more  than  he 
could  tell.  He  had  puzzled  his  brain  in  vain  for  an 
answer  to  this  harassing  question.  And  now  Bill 
was  tired  of  this  quiet  way  of  riding,  and  seemed 
determined  to  better  understand  the  errand  they 
were  on. 

Noting  Rushford's  movement,  he  said,  "You 
don't  seem  so  sure  of  your  reception  being  a  warm 
one  as  I  could  wish." 

"  I  fear  it  will  be  too  warm  for  us,"  replied  Rush- 


2O8  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

ford,  again  shrugging  his  shoulders.  But  the  har 
assed  look  left  his  face,  and  he  smiled,  or,  rather, 
grinned,  at  his  brother,  who  sat  looking  at  him  in 
astonishment.  As  Bill  spoke,  a  bright  idea  struck 
him,  and  he  was  himself  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Bill.  "You  don't 
expect  any  trouble,  do  you?" 

"Not  much,  though  the  Saunderses  will  make 
us  trouble  enough  if  they  can  get  the  chance." 

"How  so?" 

"  Well,  you  see  they  won't  want  Abbie  to  come, 
of  course,  and  will  do  all  they  can  to  hinder  her. 
They  may  go  so  far  as  to  prevent  her  leaving  the 
house." 

"I'll  not  help  you  in  that  scrape,"  said  Dill,  to 
whom  the  idea  of  a  fuss  with  other  people  was 
unpleasant  in  the  extreme.  He  was  a  lover  of  peace, 
and  often  congratulated  himself  on  having  got  so 
far  through  the  world  without  one  downright  fight. 

When  in  some  of  the  Eastern  States  he  had  fallen 
in  love,  and  become  engaged  to  a  lady  of  high  posi 
tion  in  society.  But  the  father  of  the  girl,  not  lik 
ing  the  match,  forbade  his  daughter  to  see  him. 
This  order  she  disobeyed  by  meeting  him  clandes 
tinely.  The  father,  when  he  heard  of  this,  was 
greatly  enraged,  and,  locking  his  daughter  up  in 
her  room,  informed  her  lover  of  what  he  had  done, 
and  coolly  told  him  that  the  term  of  her  imprison 
ment  depended  wholly  upon  him ;  that  as  soon  as 
positive  proof  was  received  that  he  was  in  a  far 
country,  she  would  be  set  at  liberty,  but  not  before. 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  209 

This  was  a  trying  position  for  a  lover  to  occupy, 
and,  to  make  matters  worse,  he  received  two  or 
three  notes,  by  means  of  the  servants,  from  his  im 
prisoned  lady,  full  of  protestations  of  her  undying 
affection,  and  entreaties  that  he  would  effect  her 
release. 

Some  of  his  young  friends  urged  him  to  attempt 
this,  offering  their  assistance.  But  this  he  refused 
to  do,  saying  that  if  he  got  her  in  that  way  it  must 
cause  a  lasting  enmity  between  them  and  her  family, 
and  perhaps  she  herself  would  repent  the  move,  and 
thus  all  become  unhappy.  Sitting  down  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  her  father,  stating  his  intentions,  and  an 
other  to  her,  bidding  her  a  last  farewell. 

He  came  away  bearing  with  him  her  letters,  which, 
through  a  mischievous  prank  of  a  cousin  of  his,  had 
been  read  in  the  hearing  of  Steve  and  Abbie  two 
years  before.  If,  then,  he  would  not  fight  for  his 
own  love,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  he  would 
fight  for  another's. 

"I  think  there  need  be  no  trouble,"  continued 
Steve.  "  I  made  an  agreement  with  Abbie  that  will 
tell  me  how  the  land  lies.  If  she  shows  herself 
boldly,  I  am  all  right.  But  if  she  does  not,  I  must 
watch  my  chance.  That  is  all." 

"Very  strange  bargain,  that  is.  Why  don't  she 
come  along  if  she  wants  to.  She  need  not  think  I 
am  going  to  run  my  head  into  a  hornets'  nest  to 
help  her.  If  she  hasn't  got  pluck  enough  to  walk 
out  to  the  gate,  she  isn't  worth  much;  that's  all 


2IO  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

I've  got  to  say."  Bill  gave  his  horses  a  cut  across 
the  flank  that  made  them  wonder  who  held  the 
lines. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  fight  for  her,"  said  Steve,  in 
a  persuasive  tone.  "You  just  drive  where  I  tell 
you,  and  I'll  do  the  fighting." 

"Yes,  and  you  may  for  all  of  me." 

"Come  now,  Bill,  don't  get  in  a  huff  It  will  be 
all  right,  I  think,  and  if  she  is  slow  I  know  how  to 
fetch  her." 

"Indeed  you  do.      How  is  that?" 

"  You  see,  I  did  not  come  off  down  here  without 
knowing  what  I  was  about,"  continued  Steve,  in  a 
confidential  tone.  "  I  have  a  friend  up  there,  a  lawyer, 
and  when  she  refused  to  leave  home  until  I  brought 
a  team  to  take  her  to  my  mother,  I  just  went  to  him 
and  asked  for  a  little  advice.  You  see  I  was  pretty 
mad,  but  I  did  not  want  to  do  anything  that  would 
lay  me  liable  to  the  law,  for  I  knew  those  Saunderses 
would  snap  me  up  in  a  minute  if  they  got  a  chance. 
Well,  as  I  said,  I  went  to  see  the  lawyer  and  told 
him  the  whole  thing  as  it  stood.  He  advised  me 
to  come  and  get  the  team,  then  if  she  don't  come 
to  time  just  watch  my  chance  and  get  the  child. 
This  he  says  they  cannot  touch  me  for  if  I  use  no 
force.  Then  just  give  the  lady  the  choice  between 
coming  with  me  without  any  more  fooling,  or  stay 
without  her  child.  Now  you  know  my  plan  in  case 
she  does  not  come  to  time ;  what  do  you  say  to  it  ?  " 

"I  say  it  is  a  mighty  foolish  plan,  and  if  I  had 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  211 

known  it  before  I  started,  it  would  have  been  some 
time  before  you  got  me  up  here.  I  don't  like  this 
idea  of  fighting  for  a  woman  no  how.  If  they 
don't  like  a  fellow  well  enough  to  stick  by  him,  let 
them  go,  I  say." 

"Oh,  now,  Bill,  don't  get  wrathy!  There  is  the 
little  one.  I  could  not  live  without  that,  you  know, 
old  fellow,  especially  if  it  was  being  brought  up  by 
those  Saunderses  and  taught  to  hate  me,  and  all 
that,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know! "said  Bill,  somewhat  mollified. 
"  But  suppose  she  will  not  come,  and  you  can't  get 
the  child,  and  all  that,  you  know?  " 

"Let  me  alone  for  that.  I'll  get  the  child  fast 
enough,  never  you  fear.  Besides,  they  may  forget 
their  pet  by  the  time  we  get  there,  and  make  no 
objections  to  her  going.  I  would  not  wonder  a  bit 
if  they  did.  However,  we  shall  know  in  a  short 
time,  as  we  are  almost  there.  If  Abbie  comes  out 
to  meet  us,  perhaps  we  will  stop  there  all  night.  If 
not,  we  will  drive  on  to  the  next  house  and  put  up." 

"I  suppose  it  is  all  right  if  you  say  so,"  said  Bill, 
"but  I  can't  see  what  makes  Abbie  such  a  fool.  I 
thought  she  had  more  sense.  She  looked  to  me  like 
a  girl  with  an  uncommon  strong  mind." 

"So  she  is.  And  if  I  get  her  away  from  her 
father,  she'll  be  all  right  again.  You  know  he  has  a 
strong  mind  too,  and  Abbie  has  been  used  to  obey 
ing  him,  so  when  I  got  mad  and  abused  him  a  little, 
she  could  not  stand  it.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to 
have  done  it,  but  then  I  was  mad,  you  know." 


212  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"  Better  hold  your  temper  next  time.  I  think 
that  indulgence  has  cost  you  dear  enough." 

They  drove  on  in  silence  again.  Just  as  the  sun 
was  going  down,  they  neared  Mr.  Saunders'  house. 
But  Steve  suddenly  remembered  that  they  could 
not  get  through  on  that  track,  and  must  turn  out 
and  go  round  half  a  mile  or  so.  He  had  no  inten 
tion  of  being  seen  and  recognized  by  Mr.  Saunders 
that  night.  Bill  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  when 
they  again  neared  Saunders'  place,  it  was  too  dark 
to  be  recognized.  Of  course  they  saw  nothing  of 
Abbie,  and  drove  on  to  Deering's  to  put  up. 

Steve  insisted  upon  helping  Deering  put  up  the 
team,  while  Bill  took  care  of  the  luggage.  When 
they  were  alone,  Steve  requested  Deering  not  to 
speak  of  his  trouble  to  his  brother,  as  he  (the 
brother)  felt  very  sore  on  the  subject,  and  would 
not  like  to  speak  of  it  with  strangers. 

Deering  consented,  but  as  soon  as  he  was  alone 
he  muttered  uneasily  :  "  Mighty  tender  of  his  broth 
er's  feelings!  I  warrant  that  same  brother  don't 
know  his  errand  any  too  well.  I  wonder  what  he 
is  up  to,  anyway.  Be  hanged  if  I  like  his  hanging 
around  here.  If  I  find  he's  up  to  any  mischief,  I'll 
let  Saunders  know." 

But  nothing  was  said  that  gave  him  any  clue  a=s 
to  their  intentions,  and  they  soon  retired. 

In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  they  had  eaten  theiir 
breakfast,  they  started  out  without  giving  a  hint  as  to 
their  destination.  They  drove  to  the  village,  where 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  213 

Steve  purchased  a  bottle,  which  on  his  way  back 
he  had  filled  with  milk. 

"For,"  said  he,  "we  may  have  to  keep  the  babe 
a  few  hours,  and  had  better  be  prepared." 

Then,  learning  that  Mr.  Saunders'  men  were  at 
work  in  the  timber,  they  drove  boldly  up  to  the 
gate,  and,  alighting,  entered  the  house.  Mrs.  Saun 
ders,  who  was  engaged  in  some  household  work, 
started  with  surprise  at  their  abrupt  entrance,  then, 
as  she  recognized  her  visitors,  her  face  blanched 
with  fear.  She  at  once  divined  their  errand,  and 
felt  a  momentary  relief  that  Abbie  was  not  at  home. 

"Where  is  Abbie? "  demanded  Rushford  roughly. 

"  I  decline  to  answer  your  question,"  she  an 
swered  firmly. 

"Then  I  will  soon  find  out." 

He  moved  toward  the  door  which  led  to  the 
chamber,  where  a  slight  noise  led  him  to  think  her 
concealed. 

Mrs.  Saunders  quickly  stepped  before  him,  and 
said,  "You  must  not  pass  that  door." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  and  he  seized  her  roughly 
by  the  arm,  and,  flinging  her  to  one  side,  sprang 
through  the  door  and  ascended  the  stair.  But  in 
stead  of  Abbie  he  encountered  Roxy,  busy  at  her 
chamber-work.  He  was  somewhat  taken  back,  for 
he  felt  sure  of  finding  Abbie. 

"Where  is  Abbie?  "  he  again  asked,  but,  receiv 
ing  no  more  satisfactory  answer,  he  proceeded  to 
search  the  house,  but  without  success.  Then,  re- 


214  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

turning  to  the  room  he  had  just  left,  he  said:  "I 
demand  to  be  informed  of  the  whereabouts  of  my 
wife.  I  have  come  to  take  her  away,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  conceal  her." 

"I  have  not  concealed  her,"  Mrs.  Saunders  an 
swered,  "  and  I  cannot  tell  you  where  she  is." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  know?" 

"I  did  not  say  that." 

"  Then  you  know,  but  refuse  to  tell.    Is  that  it?" 

"  It  is." 

"Then,  be  certain,"  cried  he,  in  a  loud  and  an 
gry  voice,  "  I  will  make  you  repent  this!  For  look 
ye,  I  will  not  give  up  the  search  until  she  is  found, 
and  if  I  succeed  in  getting  possession  of  her,  she 
will  pay  for  this." 

"  You  won't  get  her,"  said  Eddie,  who  stood  by 
his  mother's  side,  his  little  form  drawn  up  to  its  full 
height,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  his  lips  quivering  with 
indignation.  "Anda  won't  let"- 

He  was  checked  by  a  violent  shake  from  his 
mother,  and  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  sur 
prise.  She  was  pale  and  trembling  with  emotion, 
which  she  tried  in  vain  to  conceal. 

The  eyes  of  Bill  and  Steve  were  fixed  upon  her, 
and  as  Rushford  noticed  her  emotion  he  at  once  di 
vined  the  truth. 

"  So  she  is  at  Anda's,  is  she,  my  little  man  ? " 
said  he,  with  an  exultant  smile. 

As  he  received  no  answer,  he  nodded  to  his 
brother,  and  they  left  the  room,  and,  springing  into 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  215 

the  sleigh,  drove  with   all  possible  speed  toward 
Anda's. 

"O  my  son,  what  have  you  done?"  cried  Mrs. 
Saunders  in  an  agony  of  grief,  as  she  sank,  weak  and 
exhausted,  into  a  chair,  while  little  Eddie,  who  now 
saw  his  blunder,  flung  himself  sobbing  upon  the 
floor,  and  Roxy  and  the  others  stood  by,  dumb  with 
fear  and  astonishment. 

Mrs.  Saunders  rose,  and,  tottering  to  the  window, 
looked  far  down  the  road.  But  nothing  was  to  be 
seen.  Team  and  driver  had  long  since  disappeared. 
Then,  again  sinking  into  a  chair,  she  cried  in  her 
helpless  agony,  "O  God,  protect  my  child!"  And 
who  shall  say  that  God  did  not  hear  and  answer 
that  mother's  wailing  prayer. 

But  we  must  follow  the  movements  of  Steve  and 
Bill.  They  had  started  on  the  main  traveled  road 
to  Anda's.  Neither  spoke  a  word  except  as  Steve 
directed  where  to  drive,  until,  as  they  entered  the 
woods,  Steve  ordered  a  halt. 

"Well,  what  now?"  asked  Bill,  who  had  not 
spoken  a  word  since  entering  Mr.  Saunders'  house. 

His  mind  had  been  a  strange  mixture  of  thoughts. 
He  had  felt  angry  and  surprised  at  his  brother's 
manner  of  addressing  Mrs.  Saunders,  and  when  he 
laid  his  hands  upon  her,  he  felt  like  springing  up 
and  defending  her,  but  before  he  had  time  to  do 
this,  his  brother  was  half  way  up  the  stairs,  and  as 
the  search  continued  without  meeting  with  any 
success,  he  began  to  feel  some  interest  in  the  issue. 


2l6  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

Then,  when  little  Eddie  so  boldly  took  up  the  de 
fense,  and  in  his  childish  ignorance  disclosed  the 
whereabouts  of  his  sister,  he  was  considerably 
amused.  He  began  to  lose  his  dislike  of  his  posi 
tion,  and  take  an  interest  in  his  brother's  success, 
which  caused  the  foregoing  expression. 

Steve  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  seemed 
to  be  pondering  over  some  puzzling  question. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not  take  this  road,"  he 
said  at  last.  "It  leads  through  the  timber  where 
the  Saunderses  are  at  work.  They  may  see  us,  and 
if  we  don't  want  the  whole  pack  of  them  down  upon 
us,  we  had  better  avoid  them.  There  is  an  old 
road  leading  across  the  slough  that  is  much  shorter. 
It  probably  is  not  broken  now,  but  as  the  snow  is 
not  deep,  I  think  we  may  venture." 

"All  right,  you  are  the  boss  of  the  business,"  said 
Bill,  as  he  turned  the  horses'  heads  in  the  direction 
indicated. 

They  again  drove  on  in  silence.  They  found,  as 
Steve  had  predicted,  that  the  road  was  not  broken ; 
but  as  the  snow  was  not  deep,  they  found  no  diffi 
culty  in  traveling,  and  were  soon  within  twenty 
rods  of  Anda's  house.  Here  they  were  completely 
hidden  from  view  by  the  heavy  timber  that  sur 
rounded  the  homestead  of  Mr.  Thomas,  and  they 
stopped  to  hold  a  consultation  with  respect  to  their 
future  course. 

It  was  agreed  that  Steve  should  go  to  the  house 
alone,  and  do  what  he  could  to  induce  Abbie  to  go 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  2 1/ 

with  him.  As  he  would  probably  be  gone  some 
time,  and  as  Bill  did  not  relish  the  plan  of  sitting 
still  in  the  cold,  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  drive 
up  and  down  the  road.  As  it  was  an  unfrequented 
road,  and  lay  for  the  most  part  in  the  timber,  there 
was  not  much  danger  that  he  would  attract  atten 
tion.  It  was  also  agreed  that  he  should  not  go  far 
enough  but  what  he  could  hear  a  signal  given  by 
means  of  a  shrill  whistle  which  Steve  carried  in  his 
pocket.  When  he  heard  this  signal,  he  was  to  drive 
quickly  toward  it,  and  be  ready  to  be  off  as  soon  as 
Steve  reached  the  sleigh. 

After  all  was  settled,  Steve  walked  on  toward  the 
house.  Finding,  on  nearing  it,  that  no  one  was  at 
home,  he  passed  on  to  the  residence  of  Mr.  Thomas. 
He  was  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  place,  and, 
fearing  he  would  be  refused  an  entrance,  he  entered 
without  ceremony. 

Clara  was  standing  by  the  table  with  her  prepa 
rations  for  dinner.  Anda  was  sitting  by  the  fire. 
Abbie  was  sitting  by  the  cradle  in  which  her  little 
Ella  lay  sleeping  sweetly,  while  Lucy  was  resting 
in  her  arms. 

As  the  door  opened,  all  eyes  were  turned  toward 
it.  Clara  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  with  fright,  while 
Anda  rose  as  if  to  intercept  his  entrance,  but  before 
he  could  make  a  move,  Steve  had  entered  and 
closed  the  door.  Then,  turning,  he  walked  delib 
erately  toward  the  fire.  Abbie  was  paralyzed  with 
fear  and  sat  for  a  moment  powerless  to  move.  But 


2l8  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

as  he  neared  her,  she  suddenly  remembered  the  ad 
vice  of  her  counselor,  and,  springing  to  her  feet,  she 
handed  the  little  Lucy  to  its  father,  and  turned  to  take 
her  own  babe.  But  Steve  had  been  too  quick  for 
her,  and  had  lifted  the  sleeping  child  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  give  her  to  me!"  pleaded  Abbie,  lifting  her 
arms  imploringly  toward  the  child. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  Steve,  while  an  exult 
ant  smile  lit  up  his  evil  countenance. 

To  Abbie  he  had  never  looked  so  terrible  before, 
and,  stepping  forward,  she  took  hold  of  the  child, 
while  she  turned  her  eyes,  full  of  intensest  agony  and 
entreaty,  on  his  face,  and  pleaded,  "  O  Steve,  do 
give  her  to  me!" 

Anda  stood  by,  undecided  whether  to  interfere  or 
not.  Steve,  seeing  this,  said,  in  a  gentle,  persuasive 
voice:  "  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  I  want  to  take  her  a 
moment.  I  think  you  are  very  selfish.  She  be 
longs  to  me  as  well  as  you,  and  yet  I  have  hardly 
seen  her.  Come,  sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  pushed  her  gently  toward  a  chair.  His  gen 
tle  tone  and  manner  somewhat  mollified  Anda,  who 
was  not  so  well  acquainted  with  him  as  the  others, 
while  he  fastened  his  baleful  eyes  upon  Abbie's 
face,  well  knowing  that  she  would  understand  their 
language.  As  she  sank  into  a  chair  overcome  with 
fear  and  emotion,  he  also  sat  down.  But  instead  of 
noticing  the  child,  he  held  it  carelessly  in  his  arms, 
while  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Abbie's  face. 
The  little  one  did  not  wake,  but,  suiting  itself  to  its 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  2 19 

new  position,  slept  on,  all  unconscious  of  the  drama 
that  was  being  played  in  its  presence,  or  of  the  im 
portant  part  it  was  doomed  to  play. 

It  was  a  strange,  thrilling  picture — the  large,  old- 
fashioned  room,  with  Clara  standing  immovable  by 
the  table,  for  she  had  hardly  stirred  since  the  en 
trance  of  Steve ;  Anda  sitting  in  his  chair,  but  ready 
to  spring  at  a  moment's  notice;  Mrs.  Thomas,  who 
in  her  fright  had  dropped  her  knitting,  and  sat 
looking  at  first  one  and  then  another;  Abbie,  pale 
and  trembling,  with  her  eyes  fastened  upon  Steve, 
who  still  held  her  with  his  cruel  gaze,  the  power  of 
which  she  did  not  seem  able  to  resist ;  the  strong, 
wicked-faced  man,  equipped  in  his  rough  outer 
garments,  and  the  tender  babe,  scarce  two  months 
old,  resting  upon  his  arm,  its  long  muslin  dress  al 
most  sweeping  the  floor,  its  shoulder  blanket  fallen 
down,  and  revealing  its  plump  little  arms  and  neck 
to  view.  They  sat  thus  when  Steve  again  spoke: — 

"I  am  tired  of  living  without  my  babe,  and  have 
concluded  to  take  her  home  to  my  mother.  If  you 
have  a  spark  of  love  for  her,  I  hope  you  will  con 
clude  to  go  with  us.  I  have  a  team  in  readiness, 
and  you  must  decide  at  once  whether  you  stay  here 
without  your  child  or  go  with  it." 

He  paused  a  moment,  but,  receiving  no  answer, 
continued,  "Once  more,  will  you  go?" 

"No,  never,"  said  Abbie,  who  in  that  brief  mo 
ment  had  made  her  decision. 

She  had  read  his  purpose  in  his  eye,  but  could 


22O  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

not  believe  he  would  execute  it,  and,  well  knowing 
what  would  be  the  fate  of  her  and  the  child  if  she 
threw  herself  into  his  power,  she  determined  to  op 
pose  him  to  the  last,  and  trust  in  God  for  the  issue. 

"Is  that  your  final  decision?"  he  asked,  still 
striving  to  intimidate  her  by  his  gaze. 

"It  is,"  she  replied  firmly. 

He  arose  and  began  pacing  the  floor,  still  holding 
the  unconscious  form  of  the  infant  in  his  arms. 
Each  time  he  crossed  the  room,  he  approached 
nearer  the  door.  Once  he  paused  as  he  approached 
it,  and  seemed  to  listen,  then  resumed  his  walk. 

Divining  his  purpose,  Abbie  rose  and  placed  her 
self  against  the  door,  while  Anda  took  a  position 
near  by.  Steve's  face  assumed  a  derisive  smile  as 
he  noticed  this  movement.  It  would  only  necessi 
tate  a  little  more  strategy  on  his  part,  and  he  con 
tinued  his  walk.  He  would  approach  so  near 
Abbie  that  she  could  touch  the  child,  then  turn  and 
walk  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  again 
return  to  her. 

This  was  a  trying  moment  for  Anda.  He  was  a 
small  man,  very  short  of  stature,  and,  besides,  not 
enjoying  his  usual  strength,  having  just  recovered 
from  a  severe  illness,  while  his  tormentor  was  a 
large,  powerful  man,  against  whom  his  resistance 
would  be  but  child's  play. 

This  state  of  affairs  was  unendurable,  however, 
and  both  made  a  move  to  secure  the  child,  at  which 
Steve  drew  back,  and,  taking  the  child  by  its  feet, 


EXECUTING    HIS    PLOT.  221 

made  a  move  as  if  he  would  dash  its  head  against 
the  wall.  The  brother  and  sister  recoiled  with  hor 
ror  at  the  sight,  and,  with  the  same  demoniac  smile, 
he  resumed  his  walk.  At  length,  as  he  neared  the 
door,  he  made  a  sudden  movement;  dashing  Abbie 
to  one  side  with  a  violence  that  made  her  reel,  he 
opened  the  door  and  was  outside  in  a  moment. 

Anda  sprang  after  him,  and  Abbie,  recovering 
from  her  shock,  quickly  followed;  but  she  was  just 
in  time  to  see  him  vault  lightly  over  the  low  fence 
that  surrounded  the  yard,  the  babe  on  one  arm,  its 
blanket  still  hanging  by  one  corner,  and  its  tender 
white  arms,  neck,  and  head  exposed  to  the  cold, 
piercing  wind.  As  he  sprang  over  the  fence,  he 
uttered  a  shrill  whistle,  and  suddenly  disappeared 
from  sight  in  the  dense  woods,  followed  by  Anda, 
Raz,  Will,  and  Deering,  who  had  just  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  They  saw  the  team  drive  up,  turn 
ing  just  as  he  reached  it,  into  which  he  sprang,  and, 
catching  the  bottle  of  milk,  enveloped  himself  and 
the  child  in  the  blanket,  and  all  instantly  disappeared 
in  the  distance  and  gloom  of  the  woods. 

Leaving  them  to  pursue  their  flight,  we  will  re 
turn  and  learn  how  it  was  that  Raz,  Will,  and  Deer- 
ing  appeared  thus  abruptly  at  this  moment. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS   THE    CHILD. 
\ 
¥ 

T  will  be  remembered  that  Deering  did  not 
quite  like  the  appearance  of  his  visitors,  and 
had  tried  in  vain  to  ascertain  their  business. 
After  they  had  gone,  he  told  his  wife  that  he  be 
lieved  they  were  up  to  some  mischief,  and  she 
begged  him  to  inform  Mr.  Saunders  of  their  presence 
in  the  neighborhood.  This  he  refused  to  do,  say 
ing  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  He 
watched  them  drive  to  Mr.  Saunders',  and  leave 
again,  taking  the  wood  road. 

At  last,  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  caution, 
he  set  out  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  their  destination. 
Just  after  entering  the  woods  he  perceived  that  they 
had  left  the  wood  road  and  crossed  over  to  the  old 
one.  This  excited  his  curiosity  still  more,  and  he 
followed  them.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  mistaken 
in  the  team,  as  he  had  noticed  a  peculiarity  in  one 
of  the  horses'  feet,  which  was  plainly  visible  in  the 
track  left  in  the  snow. 

He  had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  saw  the  team 
slowly  approaching.     Hiding  behind  a  large  tree, 
he  watched  it  as  it  approached,  and,  seeing  that  the 
(222) 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS   THE    CHILD.  223 

sleigh  was  occupied  by  Bill  alone,  and  that  he  was 
moving  slowly,  as  if  waiting  for  someone,  his  inter 
est  was  excited  to  the  highest  pitch.  Bill  soon 
turned  and  retraced  his  steps. 

As  soon  as  it  was  safe,  Deering  left  his  hiding- 
place,  and,  slinking  through  the  woods,  hastened  to 
where  Raz,  Will,  and  Mr.  Saunders  were  at  work. 
He  did  not  know  that  Abbie  had  left  home,  and 
could  think  of  no  reason  for  the  strange  behavior 
of  the  brothers  except  that  Steve  intended  taking 
vengeance  upon  the  Saunderses  by  hiding  and  shoot 
ing  them  while  at  their  work. 

The  distance  was  considerable,  and  as  his  prog 
ress  was  greatly  impeded  by  deep  snow  and  under 
brush,  he  was  weary  and  panting  for  breath  when 
he  at  last  reached  the  spot.  As  he  entered  the 
clearing,  all  noticed  his  flushed  face  and  quick 
breath. 

"Why,  Deering,  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  Raz, 
in  sudden  alarm.  "  You  look  as  if  you  had  been 
running  for  a  wager." 

"  Come  here,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Deer 
ing,  seating  himself  near  a  large  pile  of  wood,  which 
effectually  screened  him  from  that  part  of  the  woods 
in  which  he  supposed  Steve  to  be. 

The  three  men  dropped  their  tools  and  were 
quickly  by  his  side,  for  they  knew  that  something 
of  importance  to  them  had  happened. 

Motioning  them  to  be  seated,  Deering,  in  as  few 
words  as  possible,  told  them  what  he  had  seen,  and 
what  his  suspicions  were. 


224  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

"Did  you  say  they  were  at  the  house?"  asked 
Will  in  an  eager  tone,  his  face  blanching. 

He  seemed  to  have  anticipated  the  question  of 
both  the  others,  for  they  turned  eagerly  to  Deering 
for  the  answer. 

"Yes,  I  saw  them  both  go  in,  but  they  soon  came 
out  and  started  in  this  direction." 

"Can  it  be  they  have  discovered  the  whereabouts 
of  Abbie?"  asked  Raz  in  dismay. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"At  Anda's." 

"That's  it!"  cried  Deering,  springing  to  his  feet, 
and  forgetting  his  fear  of  the  hidden  foe.  "  I  am 
sure  of  it  now,  for  they  had  blankets,  and  every 
thing  to  keep  a  woman  warm." 

But  Raz  did  not  hear  the  last  part  of  his  speech, 
for  he  had  started  off  at  the  first  hint  of  danger  to 
his  sister,  and  was  far  on  his  way,  followed  by  Will, 
before  Deering  had  finished  speaking.  Deering 
followed,  with  what  result  we  have  already  seen. 

Old  Mr.  Saunders,  being  thus  left  alone,  hastened 
to  hitch  his  team  to  the  sleigh,  and  followed  the 
others  to  the  scene  of  action,  where  he  arrived  just 
as  the  boys  returned  from  their  fruitless  chase  and 
were  entering  the  house. 

Here  a  strange  and  heartrending  scene  met  his 
view. 

Old  Mr.  Thomas  and  his  sons  had  come  in,  and 
all  was  in  the  wildest  confusion,  Raz  and  Will  in 
their  excitement  blaming  Anda  for  not  shooting 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS    THE    CHILD.  22$ 

Steve  upon  the  spot,  forgetting  how  often  they  had 
let  him  escape  unscathed;  Mr.  Thomas  and  his 
sons  vainly  trying  to  find  out  what  had  happened; 
Clara,  pale  with  excitement  and  pity  for  Abbie, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  trying  to  still  the 
little  Lucy,  who,  frightened  at  the  uproar,  was  cry 
ing  lustily;  Abbie,  sometimes  walking  the  floor  and 
wringing  her  hands,  while  piteous  moans  escaped 
her  lips,  then,  falling  upon  her  knees  at  Mrs. 
Thomas'  feet,  she  would  bury  her  head  in  her  lap 
and  weep.  Ever  and  anon  she  would  raise  her  head, 
and,  gazing  into  the  cradle  from  which  her  darling 
had  been  taken,  she  would  again  hide  her  face  and 
weep  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Other  eyes  were  also  dimmed  with  tears  as  they 
followed  hers.  There,  upon  the  pillow,  was  the 
print  of  the  baby  head.  The  blanket  that  had  cov 
ered  it  had  been  scarcely  stirred  by  its  removal. 
Its  cloak  and  hood  lay  upon  the  foot  of  the  cradle 
where  they  had  been  thrown  upon  entering  the 
room,  while  the  babe  who  had  worn  them  was  ex 
posed  to  the  biting  cold  with  no  other  covering  save 
the  coarse  blankets  which  were  in  the  sleigh. 

"Oh,  Avhy  did  he  not  take  its  cloak? ".wailed  the 
poor  mother,  while  tears  streamed  down  her  face. 
Then,  rising  to  her  feet,  she  went  to  meet  her  father, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  until  that  moment. 

"My  poor  child!"  he  said,  as  the  tears  flowed 
down  his  aged  face. 

"Do  not  grieve  so,  dear  father,"  she  said,  with  a 
great  effort  controlling  her  voice. 
15 


226  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

A  strange  fire  burned  in  her  eyes  and  she  trem 
bled  violently,  but  few  more  tears  were  allowed  to 
fall,  though  her  face  was  as  white  as  marble.  She 
bent  eagerly  forward  and  listened. 

Will  Thomas  was  talking  rapidly.  He  proposed 
that  they  collect  six  or  eight  men,  follow  the  broth 
ers,  secure  the  babe,  and  mete  out  to  the  rascals  the 
punishment  they  deserved.  It  was  a  shame,  he  said, 
for  men  to  sit  still  and  see  a  tender  infant  torn  from 
its  mother's  arms,  and  borne  away  to  suffer,  perhaps 
to  die. 

Abbie's  heart  stood  still  with  fear.  She  fully  be 
lieved  that  Steve  would  never  let  them  take  the 
child  alive,  that  any  attempt  to  rescue  it  would  be 
more  likely  to  result  in  its  death  than  its  rescue. 
Just  as  they  were  agreed  and  prepared  for  action, 
they  were  startled  by  Abbie's  voice,  crying,  in  clear, 
shrill  tones,  "Stop,  men;  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
stop!" 

All  eyes  were  instantly  turned  upon  her.  There 
stood  the  woman  whom  they  had  seen  wringing  her 
hands  in  an  agony  of  grief  for  her  lost  child.  Now 
her  eyes  were  no  longer  dimmed  with  tears,  but 
filled  with  that  strange  fire  which  her  father  had  re 
marked  as  she  joined  him.  Her  face  was  pale,  her 
lips  twitched  nervously,  and  one  hand  was  raised  to 
command  silence. 

At  length,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice,  she  said:  "I  do 
not  for  a  moment  doubt  your  kind  intentions,  but, 
believe  me,  any  attempt  to  rescue  my  babe  by  force 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS   THE   CHILD.  22/ 

will  only  result  in  failure,  or  what  to  me  would  be 
even  worse,  the  recovery  of  its  dead  body.  I  know 
the  man  with  whom  you  have  to  deal  better  than 
you  do.  While  he  has  possession  of  the  child,  he 
will  do  the  best  he  can  for  it,  but  he  would  now,  in 
the  heat  of  his  passion,  sooner  take  its  life,  which 
you  would  be  powerless  to  prevent,  than  allow  it  to 
be  taken  from  him." 

"But,  Abbie,"  said  Raz,  coming  to  her  side,  "we 
cannot  sit  still  like  cowards,  while  the  child  is  being 
taken  away." 

"  You  cannot  prevent  it,  my  brother.  I  repeat, 
he  will  take  the  child's  life  before  he  will  give  her 
up." 

"But  he  surely  would  not  kill  his  own  child!" 

"  I  believe  Abbie  is  right,"  said  Anda.  "  I  believe 
he  would  have  dashed  her  brains  out  against  the 
wall  before  our  very  eyes  if  we  had  not  desisted  in 
our  attempt  to  take  her  before  he  left  the  house." 

She  gave  her  brother  a  grateful  look,  and  waited 
impatiently  for  their  decision. 

Deering  stepped  forward  and  said:  "Gentlemen, 
throughout  this  whole  affair  I  have,  as  you  all  know, 
occupied  the  meanest  position  a  man  can  hold, 
that  which  is  designated  as  *  straddle  of  the  fence.' 
I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  myself,  for  I  feel  that  I 
am  to  blame  for  this  trouble.  If  I  had  done  by  my 
neighbor  as  I  would  have  him  do  by  me,  I  would 
have  informed  Mr.  Saunders  of  the  arrival  of  the 
villains  in  the  place.  This,  however,  I  did  not  do, 


228  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

and  that  mother  standing  there,  so  white  with  an 
guish,  yet  so  brave,  might  well  curse  me  for  the  loss 
of  her  darling.  I  ask  her  forgiveness,  and  pledge 
myself  to  die,  if  need  be,  in  the  attempt  to  rescue 
her  child." 

A  deathlike  stillness  reigned  throughout  the 
room,  until  Abbie  stepped  forward  and  shook  him 
by  the  hand.  All  in  the  room  followed  her  ex 
ample,  and  another  lasting  friend  was  added  to  their 
already  large  list  of  friends. 

It  was  thought  best  for  Abbie  to  return  home 
with  her  father,  and  they  were  soon  upon  the  road. 
Will  and  Deering  attended  them  to  guard  'against 
surprise.  Raz  stayed  behind,  on  some  trivial  excuse, 
and  Abbie  feared  he  had  not  abandoned  the  idea  of 
an  attempt  to  rescue  the  child. 

With  what  a  sad  heart  did  she  set  out  to  return 
home!  Just  twenty- four  hours  before  she  had 
passed  through  these  woods  in  peaceful  possession 
of  her  child.  Now  she  was  returning,  her  arms 
empty,  her  heart  aching,  the  little  bundle  of  clothes 
lying  in  her  lap  being  all  that  was  left  to  her  of  her 
darling. 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  she  alighted,  and, 
passing  up  the  familiar  path,  entered  the  house.  She 
seemed  in  a  daze,  scarcely  knowing  where  she  was, 
until  her  mother  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and,  kiss 
ing  her  pale  brow,  repeated  those  solemn  words, 
"Trust  in  God,  my  child." 

"Oh,  I  do,    I  do!"  cried  Abbie,  bursting    into 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS    THE    CHILD.  22Q 

tears.  But  these  were  soon  dried,  and  again  that 
strange  light  shone  from  her  eyes.  She  scarcely 
seemed  to  notice  anyone,  but  roamed  listlessly  over 
the  house,  seeming  in  search  of  something,  yet 
never  uttering  a  word. 

The  news  spread  over  the  neighborhood  like 
wildfire,  and  soon  a  large  circle  of  friends  waited 
upon  the  family,  sympathizing  in  their  bereavement, 
and  offering  their  assistance.  Abbie  hardly  saw 
them,  but  continued  to  roam  here  and  there,  until 
her  mother,  unable  longer  to  endure  the  sight  of 
such  grief,  entreated  her  to  calm  herself  and  par 
take  of  some  refreshment,  as  she  had  eaten  nothing 
since  morning. 

"O  mother,  I  cannot!  "  she  cried,  again  wringing 
her  hands  and  weeping. 

"  But  you  must,  my  child,"  said  her  mother,  in  a 
firm  but  persuasive  voice. 

Abbie  yielded  without  another  word,  but  her 
mind  was  greatly  agitated.  She  did  not  scream  or 
make  any  violent  demonstration.  But,  oh,  the  ter 
rible  pain  gnawing  at  her  heart !  She  felt  sure  that 
Raz,  backed  by  Will  Thomas,  was  bent  upon  rais 
ing  assistance  and  pursuing  the  brothers.  She 
knew  that,  in  the  then  excited  state  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  scarcely  a  man  would  refuse  to  go.  A 
large  mob  would  be  the  result,  which,  with  the  clue 
they  possessed  by  which  they  could  track  them 
through  the  snow,  would  be  almost  sure  to  result 
in  the  capture  of  the  brothers. 


230  ABBIE   SAUNDERS." 

She  thought  of  her  babe  in  the  power  of  its  cruel 
parent,  of  his  anger  and  desperation  at  rinding  him 
self  pursued,  saw  the  pursuers  gain  upon  him,  and 
saw  the  demoniac  light  gleam  from  Rushford's 
eyes.  Would  he,  oh,  would  he  consummate  his  ter 
rible  revenge  by  raising  his  hand  against  his  child. 
The  picture  was  horrible  in  the  extreme.  She 
could  not  shake  it  off.  She  could  not  share  it  with 
others.  She  could  only  pray  and  trust.  She  hoped 
that  if  he  were  not  molested,  he  would  return  the 
babe  in  a  few  days.  But  if  angered  by  pursuit,  all 
hope  of  such  a  result  was  gone,  and  she  prayed,  as 
only  a  bereaved  mother  can  pray,  that  the  pursuers 
mi«;ht  be  confounded,  and  that  hen  darling's  life 

o  o 

might  be  spared. 

An  assurance  that  her  child  would  be  spared, 
and  that  she  could  again  press  it  to  her  heart,  took 
possession  of  her  soul.  She  rose  from  her  knees, 
arranged  her  toilet,  and,  entering  the  kitchen,  per 
formed  her  usual  duties  of  assisting  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  startled  at  this  strange  way 
of  bearing  grief,  and  feared  her  mind  was  giving 
way,  but  when,  on  conversing  with  her,  Abbie  told 
her  of  her  faith  in  the  answer  to  her  prayer,  and  she 
had  looked  into  those  firm,  trusting  eyes,  she  felt 
no  more  fear,  but  knew  that  her  daughter  had  in 
deed  learned  to  "  trust  in  God." 

It  had  been  decided  between  Mr.  Saunders  and 
his  friends  that  Abbie  had  better  go  to  the  village 
and  remain  until  the  suit  was  finished.  His  friends 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS    THE    CHILD.  231 

urged  this  because  she  would  be  safer,  and  they 
would  be  free  to  go  or  come  as  they  chose.  To 
this  she  agreed,  and  two  or  three  staunch  friends 
promised  to  meet  at  Mr.  Saunders'  about  midnight 
that  night  to  accompany  the  father  and  daughter 
to  the  village. 

Preparation  was  made  for  the  journey,  and  at  the 
appointed  hour  their  friends  arrived.  Their  hearts 
were  filled  with  pity  as  they  looked  upon  the  be 
reaved  family,  as  they,  with  tear-stained  faces,  gath 
ered  around  Abbie.  She  was  pale,  but  calm  and 
firm,  as  she  bade  them  good-by  and  entered  the 
sleigh. 

The  father  followed  with  tottering  step.  One  of 
his  friends  remonstrated,  entreating  him  to  slay  at 
home,  and  promising  to  guard  Abbie  with  his  life, 
to  which  entreaty  the  others  added  their  voices. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head  in 
a  determined  way  ;  "  I  must  see  her  safely  housed, 
and  among  staunch  friends,  or  I  cannot  rest." 

They  said  no  more,  and  drove  away  in  silence, 
but  the  scene  thus  inscribed  upon  their  memory 
would  never  be  forgotten.  They  had  known  and 
respected  Mr.  Saunders  since  his  entrance  into  the 
neighborhood.  They  well  remembered  the  day 
when  Abbie  entered  the  church,  attired  as  a  bride, 
and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  young  husband. 
They  had  looked  upon  it  as  an  ill-assorted  match  at 
the  time,  for,  though  the)'  knew  no  ill  of  the  young 
man,  yet  he  was  not  a  universal  favorite.  Mr. 


232  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

White,  one  of  the  men  who  now  attended  Abbie, 
had  remarked  upon  the  wedding  day  that,  in  his 
opinion,  it  would  not  take  much  to  make  Rushford 
a  villain.  They  had  heard  of  the  treatment  his 
young  wife  had  received  at  his  hands,  and  now  he 
had  demonstrated  the  cruelty  of  his  heart  by  not 
only  robbing  her  of  her  child,  but  needlessly  expos 
ing  its  life  by  not  using  precautions  that  lay  in  his 
power  to  protect  its  tender  form  from  the  biting 
winds  of  a  Minnesota  winter.  And  the  mother  was 
obliged  to  fly,  under  the  cover  of  the  night,  to  es 
cape  further  violence. 

On  reaching  town,  after  a  dreary  ride  of  six 
miles,  they  received  admittance  into  the  house  of  a 
friend,  but,  as  his  house  stood  upon  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  it  was  not  considered  a  safe  place,  and 
another  was  procured  in  the  heart  of  the  town, 
where  she  was  surrounded  by  friends.  Here  her 
father  left  her  and  returned  home. 

Abbie  scarcely  expected  that  her  babe  would  be 
brought  in  by  those  who  had  gone  in  pursuit,  but 
hour  after  hour  passed,  and  no  tidings  came  of 
either  pursuer  or  pursued. 

At  last,  about  two  o'clock,  a  man  rode  into  town 
upon  a  jaded  horse,  and  was  immediately  recog 
nized  as  one  of  the  pursuing  party.  He  was  at 
once  surrounded  by  an  eager  crowd,  who  clamored 
for  the  news.  Jim  Brooks,  as  the  man  was  called, 
dismounted  from  his  horse  and  was  led  away  to 
shelter  and  food,  as  he  had  declared  he  would  tell 


RUSHFORD    KIDNAPS   THE   CHILD. 


-JJ 


nothing  until  he  had  some  "grub,"  as  he  had  eaten 
nothing  since  evening. 

While  he  is  thus  occupied,  we  will  go  back  and 
follow  the  brothers  in  their  flight. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

f  *     ' 

>HEY  stood  so  much  in  fear  of  pursuit  that 
they  did  not  slacken  their  speed  until  they 
were  several  miles  from  the  scene  of  their 
exploit,  and  even  then  they  did  not  stop  altogther. 

On  entering  the  sleigh,  the  babe,  who  had  been 
awakened  by  the  rough  handling  and  the  piercing 
wind,  began  to  scream  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  utterly 
refusing  to  be  comforted  by  the  means  its  inhuman 
father  had  provided.  In  vain  he  tried  to  still  its 
cries.  It  would  not  heed  his  efforts,  but  continued 
to  cry,  until,  tired  and  weary,  it  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 
This  was  a  great  relief  to  the  brothers.  They  had 
been  afraid  that  its  cries  would  attract  the  attention 
of  some  passers-by.  To  guard  against  this  they 
had  taken  an  unfrequented  road  through  a  sparsely- 
s'ettled  country,  and  had  completely  enveloped  the 
father  in  the  blankets,  thus  inducing  any  passer-by 
to  believe  the  child  was  with  its  mother. 

This  to  Steve  was  a  very  unpleasant  position. 
To  be  enveloped,  head  and  ears,  in  blankets,  with  a 
crying  child,  did  not  quite  meet  his  ideas  of  com 
fort,  and  more  than  once  he  regretted  the  course  he 
(234) 


THE    FLIGHT.  235 

had  taken,  and  was  almost  persuaded  to  take  it 
back.  But,  having  but  little  love  for  the  child,  and 
no  conception  of  the  danger  of  its  position,  he  would 
not  yield  to  this  desire,  but  determined  to  carry  out 
his  threat,  even  if  he  was  obliged  to  be  nurse  the 
whole  distance  home.  When,  therefore,  his  brother 
advised  the  return  of  the  child,  he  flatly  refused. 

It  was  not  his  intention  to  leave  the  neighborhood 
without  another  attempt  to  secure  Abbie,  so,  after 
going  some  distance,  they  took  a  roundabout  way 
and  returned  to  within  six  miles  of  Mr.  Saunders' 
residence,  where,  finding  a  small  house  standing  in 
an  isolated  position  and  inhabited  by  an  old  Dutch 
man  and  his  wife  and  two  small  children,  they  de 
cided  to  apply  for  shelter. 

The  babe  had  awakened,  and  was  crying  in  a 
weak,  faint  voice.  The  Dutchman's  wife,  upon  hear 
ing  the  child,  immediately  gave  her  consent,  but 
what  was  her  surprise,  when  the  blankets  were 
thrown  back,  to  see,  not  a  woman,  as  she  had  ex 
pected,  but  a  man  emerge  from  the  sleigh  with  the 
child  in  his  arms,  and  enter  the  house.  Seating 
himself  by  the  fire,  he  proceeded  to  unwrap  the  heavy 
blankets  in  which  the  child  was  enveloped.  Re 
covering  from  her  surprise,  she,  in  a  slightly  broken 
accent,  inquired  for  the  mother. 

Steve  had  not  forgotten  his  acting,  and  his 
tongue  was  as  ready  as  ever.  Pretending  to  wipe 
a  tear  from  his  eyes,  which  he  took  care  not  to 
raise  to  the  woman's  face,  he  said  in  trembling  tones 


236  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

that  the  poor  little  thing's  mother  was  very  sick; 
that  the  babe  had  also  been  sick,  and  that,  as  proper 
help  could  not  be  procured,  and  as  both  were  likely 
to  die,  he  had  been  advised  to  take  the  child  to 
his  mother,  who  lived  some  twelve  miles  further  on. 
He  had  hoped  to  reach  there  that  night,  but  as  it 
was  so  late,  and  the  babe  seemed  so  weak,  he  dared 
go  no  farther. 

All  the  mother  feeling  was  aroused  in  the  woman. 
She  took  little  Ella  tenderly  in  her  arms,  and,  sitting 
down  by  the  fire,  proceeded,  as  only  a  mother 
knows  how,  to  relieve  the  wants  of  the  little  one. 
It  was  indeed  in  a  pitiable  plight.  Stripping  off  its 
garments,  and  bathing  the  little  form  in  a  gentle, 
loving  manner,  she  dressed  it  in  some  cast-off  cloth 
ing  that  had  once  been  worn  by  her  own  sturdy 
boys.  She  then  tried  to  feed  it  some  warm  milk, 
but  it  would  take  but  little,  and  seemed  to  be  in  a 
stupor,  from  which  it  could  not  be  aroused.  After 
doing  all  she  could  for  its  comfort,  she  made  a  bed 
of  pillows,  and,  placing  it  near  the  fire,  laid  the  little 
form  gently  down,  and  began  active  preparations 
for  supper  for  the  two  men  who  were  sitting  by  the 
fire. 

They  had  eaten  nothing  since  morning,  and  when 
they  were  invited  to  partake  of  the  humble  fare, 
they  soon  made  way  with  the  food  prepared. 

Mrs.  Thaylor  had  not  taken  much  notice  of  her 
older  guests,  having  her  attention  so  thoroughly 
taken  up  with  the  little  one,  but  now,  as  she  sat  op- 


THE   FLIGHT.  2$'/ 

posite  the  father  while  he  ate,  and  studied  his  coun 
tenance,  a  feeling  of  distrust  which  she  could  not 
shake  off  or  account  for  stole  over  her. 

Mr.  Thaylor  said  but  little,  but  watched  the  two 
men  furtively.  He  was  out  with  Bill  when  Steve 
told  his  artful  story,  which  had  not  been  questioned 
by  Mrs.  Thaylor,  but  had  received  an  explanation 
of  their  strange  appearance  from  Bill,  who,  not  be 
ing  an  adept  at  deceit,  had  told  such  a  disconnected 
story  that  his  host's  suspicions  were  aroused  at 
once.  Feeling  sure  there  was  some  foul  play,  he 
watched  them  narrowly,  and  after  they  had  resumed 
their  seat  by  the  fire,  attempted  to  draw  them  out, 
in  which  he  did  not  succeed. 

Being  weary,  they  soon  requested  permission  to 
retire.  When  they  were  alone,  they  compared  notes, 
and  as  soon  as  Bill  had  given  an  account  of  his 
talk  with  Thaylor,  they  saw  that  they  were  in  a  fair 
way  for  a  muss.  However,  thinking  they  would 
be  a  match  for  the  Dutchman  and  his  wife,  they  dis 
missed  their  fears,  and  were  soon  sound  asleep,  and 
did  not  wake  until  morning. 

After  the  supper  things  had  been  put  away,  Mrs. 
Thaylor  took  the  little  one  in  her  arms  once  more, 
and,  gazing  tenderly  into  its  tiny  face  while  she  held 
the  little  cold  feet  to  the  fire  (they  had  so  far  re 
sisted  all  attempts  to  warm  them),  she  told  her  hus 
band  the  touching  story  that  had  been  told  to  her. 

He  listened  attentively,  then  asked,  "  He  said  the 
mother  was  sick,  did  he?" 


238  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  wife,  "  so  sick  they  don't  think 
she  will  live.  Poor  little  lamb!  "  kissing  the  child. 

"Well,  the  other  told  me  she  was  dead." 

"  Dead  !  Land-a-massy,  is  it  possible  she  is  dead, 
and  the  poor  father  does  not  know  it !  What  will 
he  do?  He  shed  tears  like  a  child  when  he  came 
in." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Thaylor,  moving  uneasily  in  his 
chair,  and  watching  his  wife  as  she  lovingly  caressed 
the  little  one. 

"  Poor,  dear  little  lamb  !  "  she  murmured.  "  How 
sick  it  is  !  It  does  not  notice  anything.  But  there, 
I  must  lay  the  poor  thing  down,  for  I  must  wash 
and  dry  its  clothes  against  they  start  in  the  morn 
ing." 

Laying  the  babe  gently  on  its  little  bed,  she  took 
the  kettle  that  was  singing  by  the  fire,  and,  pouring 
some  water  into  a  tub,  set  to  work  with  a  will. 
She  soon  had  the  clothes  sweet  and  clean.  Then, 
hanging  them  by  the  fire  to  dry,  and  clearing  away 
the  washing  utensils,  she  once  more  sat  down  and 
took  the  child  in  her  arms. 

It  was  now  nearly  ten  o'clock.  The  babe  had 
scarcely  stirred  since  she  laid  it  down.  Mr.  Thay 
lor  sat  moodily  watching  the  coals,  a  look  of  perplex 
ity  settling  upon  his  countenance.  As  Mrs.  Thay 
lor  took  the  babe  in  her  arms,  a  faint  moan  escaped 
its  lips,  followed  by  a  rattling  sound  in  its  throat, 
and  hard  breathing.  They  looked  at  each  other  in 
alarm.  The  woman  turned  her  head  to  listen,  as  if 


THE    FLIGHT.  239 

to  ascertain  if  the  two  men  in  the  loft  were  awake. 
But  the  heavy  stentorian  breathing  soon  indicated 
that  they  were  both  sleeping  soundly.  She  cast  an 
inquiring  look  at  her  husband,  but  he  shook  his 
head,  saying,  "  No,  do  not  disturb  them."  Then, 
moving  his  chair  nearer  hers,  they  eagerly  scanned 
the  face  of  the  little  sufferer. 

It  bore  the  marks  of  great  suffering,  but  it  was 
by  no  means  as  thin  as  might  have  been  expected 
from  a  long  spell  of  sickness  and  neglect.  Its  cheeks 
were  round  and  plump,  and  its  arms  and  hands 
wrinkled  with  fat,  and  felt  plump  as  Mrs.  Thaylor 
took  them  in  her  own.  Noticing  this,  the  husband 
reached  forward  and  took  the  little  hand  in  his,  then, 
looking  in  his  wife's  face,  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  so 
as  to  escape  the  ears  of  the  sleepers  : — 

"  This  child  hasn't  been  sick  long.  Those  cheeks 
and  arms  show  that  it  has  not  only  been  well,  but 
has  had  the  best  of  care." 

"But  it  is  surely  sick  now,"  said  the  woman, 
startled  by  the  look  of  her  husband. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  from  the  exposure  of  to-day. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  child  has  been  stolen." 

"Oh,  land-a-massa!"  cried  the  terrified  wife. 
"  Can  it  be  so?  Oh,  whatever  shall  we  do?" 

"Be  quiet,  wife;  you  disturb  the  little  one.  See 
how  hard  it  breathes  again.  There,  that  is  better," 
as  the  child  again  became  quiet,  and  its  breath 
came  more  evenly.  "  Now  do  not  disturb  it  again, 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think." 


240  ABB1E   SAUNDERS. 

In  a  low  tone  he  told  her  that  he  believed  that 
the  man  had  a  grudge  against  the  father  of  the 
child,  and  had  stolen  it,  and  was  carrying  it  off; 
that  his  story  was  a  mere  fabrication  to  deceive 
them,  and  that  the  sickness  of  the  babe  was  caused 
by  the  exposure,  of  the  day. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "see  that.  That's  just  the  way 
little  Frankie  acted  after  we  had  had  him  out  on  a 
cold  day.  The  doctor  said  it  was  croup.  Look! 
See  that  motion.  See  how  hard  it  breathes." 

The  babe  had  become  suddenly  restless,  throw 
ing  up  its  arms  as  if  in  pain,  while  its  breath  came 
short  and  quick.  It  languidly  opened  its  large  blue 
eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  the  woman's  face  in 
mute  appeal,  its  nostrils  dilated,  its  lips  tightly- 
drawn. 

"Oh,  land-a-massa ! "  cried  the  woman,  "it  will 
surely  die.  Call  its  father  quick,  and  send  him  for 
the  doctor.  Oh.  be  quick!"  she  cried,  as  she  saw 
his  hesitation,  forgetting  in  her  fear  for  the  babe  her 
suspicions  of  a  moment  before.  "  Be  quick,  or  it 
will  be  too  late." 

"  No,  no,"  said  her  husband  in  an  excited  tone. 
"It  would  now  be  too  late.  It  is  three  miles  to  the 
doctor's,  and  it  would  be  all  over  before  he  could  go 
half  the  distance.  We  must  do  something  ourselves 
if  we  hope  to  save  its  life.  Do  you  not  remember 
what  the  doctor  did  for  Frankie  ?  Here,  give  me  the 
child  while  you  work.  Be  still  as  death  and  do  not 
awaken  them.  I  cannot  bear  that  they  should  ap 
proach  the  child." 


THE    FLIGHT.  24! 

He  took  the  babe  in  his  arms,  when  his  wife 
placed  a  pillow  so  that  the  little  form  might  lie  more 
easily. 

Filling  a  basin  from  the  kettle,  which  she  had  re 
filled  and  placed  by  the  fire,  she  soon  enveloped  the 
little  feet  in  cloths  wrung  from  the  warm  water,  then, 
placing  the  same  the  whole  length  of  its  body,  she 
proceeded  to  envelop  its  throat  in  cloths,  wet  first 
in  hot  then  in  cold  water,  and  was  soon  rewarded 
by  seeing  the  patient  somewhat  relieved  and  breath 
ing  more  easily.  The  nostrils  resumed  their  natural 
motion ;  the  drawn,  painful  expression  left  its  mouth, 
and  in  half  an  hour  it  sank  into  a  peaceful  slumber, 
and  they  knew  it  was  saved. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  the  wife  looked  into  the  face 
of  her  husband.  The  troubled  expression  had  re 
turned  to  his  face,  and  he  was  looking  steadily  at 
the  clothes  of  the  child,  as  they  hung  by  the  fire. 
He  rose  and  examined  them  closely.  They  were 
neatly  made  of  fine  material,  deeply  embroidered, 
evidently  by  the  mother's  own  hand. 

Turning  to  his  wife,  he  said,  "I  am  sure  that  this 
man  has  no  right  to  the  child,  and  it  shall  not  leave 
this  house  until  I  know  more  about  it." 

"But  how  will  you  prevent  it?"  asked  the  wife, 
in  evident  alarm.  "They  are  two  heavy,  powerful 
men,  and  if  your  suspicions  are  true,  they  must  be 
very  bad." 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  replied  he.  "We  will 
send  Johnny  over  to  Parkers'  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 
16 


242  ABI5IE    SAUN'DERS. 

and  ask  him  and  his  two  sons  to  come  over  as  soon 
as  they  can.  We'll  keep  the  men  till  they  come, 
then  we'll  be  able  to  do  whatever  is  necessary  to 
keep  the  child." 

They  watched  by  the  side  of  the  little  one  all 
night.  At  the  first  streak  of  day  little  Johnny  was 
on  his  way  to  Parker's.  At  length,  hearing  the 
men  stirring  upstairs,  Mrs.  Thaylor  rose  and  set 
about  preparing  breakfast,  but  she  worked  as  slowly 
as  possible,  in  order  to  delay  the  scene  that  must 
surely  come,  and  give  their  friends  time  to  arrive. 
As  the  father  sat  by  the  fire,  impatiently  waiting  the 
progress  of  the  meal,  she  decided  to  try  to  obtain 
peaceable  possession  of  the  child,  and,  telling  him  of 
its  narrow  escape  the  night  before,  she  begged  him 
to  allow  it  to  remain  in  her  care  until  it  should  en 
tirely  recover,  promising,  as  soon  as  it  was  safe,  to 
take  the  child  to  its  mother.  This  he  refused,  and 
seemed  very  uneasy  and  anxious  to  be  on  his  way. 

At  length  the  two  men  were  seated  at  the  break 
fast  table.  As  the  woman  took  the  babe  in  her 
arms  and  began  to  feed  it  some  warm  milk,  the 
father  angrily  ordered  her  to  dress  the  child  in  its 
own  clothes,  as  he  must  be  off  as  soon  as  possible. 
The  woman  refused  to  obey  him,  declaring  that 
the  child  was  not  able  to  be  dressed,  and  must  not 
be  taken  out  that  day. 

Steve  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  replied  angrily 
that  he  had  only  asked  her  to  take  care  of  the  child 
for  the  night,  that  he  was  willing  to  pay  her  any 


THE    FLIGHT.  243 

price  for  her  trouble,  but  that  the  child  was  going 
with  him.  If  she  did  not  dress  it,  he  would  take  it 
as  it  was.  He  was  angry  at  the  manner  in  which 
Thaylor  regarded  him,  and  was  working  himself 
into  a  towering  passion.  He  told  them  it  was  none 
of  their  business  who  the  child  belonged  to,  how  he 
came  by  it,  or  what  he  did  with  it;  that  he  believed 
that  the  story  that  the  child  was  sick  had  only  been 
concocted  by  them  to  frighten  him,  but  they  would 
find  that  he  was  not  to  be  frightened,  and  the  child 
he  would  have  at  any  cost. 

Suddenly  the  burly  form  of  Baker  entered  the 
room,  followed  by  his  two  stalwart  sons.  Steve's 
countenance  quickly  fell.  The  three  men  were 
well  armed,  for  Johnny  had  told  his  story  well,  and 
as  he  brought  up  the  rear  he  stepped  to  his  father's 
side,  and  looked  the  angry  man  full  in  the  face. 

Steve  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  trapped.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken.  He  stalked  silently  out  of  the 
room,  followed  by  Bill.  As  soon  as  they  had 
gained  a  sufficient  distance  so  as  not  to  be  overheard, 
but  near  enough  to  watch  the  door  of  the  house, 
they  paused  and  held  a  consultation. 

Meanwhile  Thaylor  eagerly  related  to  his  friends 
what  we  have  already  told.  They  readily  agreed 
that  his  suspicions  were  well-grounded,  and  volun 
teered  their  assistance.  Just  then  the  two  men 
walked  toward  the  house. 

Steve's  face  wore  a  smile  of  exultation.  Bowing 
to  them  in  mock  politeness,  he  said:  "No  doubt, 


244  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

gentlemen,  you  think  yourselves  right  in  upholding 
this  woman  in  her  refusal  to  give  me  my  child.  It 
does  indeed  seem  strange  that  I  should  be  traveling 
alone  with  so  young  a  child,  but,  as  I  said  before, 
I  am  the  father  of  the  child.  I  intended  to  take  it 
back  to  its  mother,  as  the  thought  of  returning 
without  it,  and  the  grief  of  its  mother  when  she 
should  discover  that  I  had  left  it,  was  too  much  for 
me  to  bear.  This  I  did  not  feel  bound  to  explain 
to  you,  supposing  it  to  be  my  own  business.  When 
the  woman  refused  to  give  up  the  child,  I  grew 
angry.  For  this  I  crave  pardon,  but  request  that 
the  child  be  immediately  prepared  for  its  journey, 
as  I  am  anxious  lest  my  wife,  becoming  conscious, 
should  discover  the  absence  of  the  child,  and  thus 
suffer  needless  pain." 

He  paused,  but,  as  the  woman  still  hesitated,  he 
continued:  "If  you  still  doubt  my  word,  I  will 
agree  that  you  and  your  husband  shall  accompany 
the  child  and  see  it  safe  in  its  mother's  arms.  That 
is  certainly  as  fair  a  proposal  as  you  could  ask." 

After  some  consultation  they  agreed  to  his  terms, 
and,  making  as  speedy  preparations  as  possible,  they 
set  out,  Barker  kindly  taking  their  little  ones  home 
with  him  until  their  return. 

Mrs.  Thaylor  had  made  the  child  as  comfortable 
as  possible  in  some  of  her  babe's  cast-off  wraps,  and, 
with  a  large  bottle  of  nicely-prepared  milk,  hoped 
to  find  no  trouble  in  keeping  it  so  to  the  end  of  her 
journey. 


THE    FLIGHT.  245 

After  driving  some  three  miles  over  the  bleak 
prairie,  they  entered  a  deep  ravine,  where  they  were 
completely  hidden  from  view.  Here  they  came  to  a 
sudden  halt,  and  Bill,  taking-  a  sled  stake  in  one 
hand,  held  the  lines  with  the  other.  Steve  caught 
up  an  ax,  which  had  lain  hidden  in  the  straw  with 
which  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh  was  covered,  and, 
springing  out,  advanced  to  the  side  of  the  sleigh. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thaylor  were  comfortably  seated, 
while  Mrs.  Thaylor  held  the  babe  in  her  arms.  He 
commanded  them,  in  no  gentle  tone,  to  lay  down 
the  child  and  dismount,  as  he  had  no  further  need 
of  their  assistance.  The  astonished  pair  instantly 
saw  that  they  were  beaten,  and  as  there  was  no  use 
of  resisting  the  command,  they  at  once  rose  and 
alighted. 

By  the  time  they  were  fairly  out,  Steve  had  sprung 
into  the  sleigh,  Bill  whipped  up  his  horses,  and  the 
crestfallen  pair  were  left  standing  in  the  snow,  which 
was  nearly  a  foot  deep,  with  no  alternative  but  to 
walk  back  that  long  three  miles  across  the  prairie, 
while  the  babe  they  had  striven  so  hard  to  protect 
was  again  in  the  hands  of  its  captors.  As  soon  as 
Steve  regained  the  sleigh,  he  caught  the  child  from 
where  it  lay,  and,  holding  it  far  above  his  head,  he 
danced  and  shouted  at  the  pair  whom  he  had  so 
cleverly  outwitted  more  like  a  savage  than  a  civil 
ized  man. 

They  soon  disappeared,  however,  and  the  pair 
turned  slowly  toward  home.  But  you  may  be  sure 


246  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

they  did  not  soon  forget  their  adventure,  and  when,, 
twelve  years  after,  having  learned  the  facts  in  the 
case,  they  visited  the  mother  and  daughter  in  their 
home  not  twelve  miles  from  the  spot  where  they 
were  left  in  the  snow,  their  story  had  lost  nothing 
either  in  interest  or  length. 

Steve  and  Bill,  after  leaving  the  Dutchman  and 
his  wife  to  find  their  way  back  as  best  they  could, 
continued  to  drive  swiftly  forward  until  they  were 
not  far  from  Mr.  Saunders'  place,  when  they  halted 
in  a  small  grove  and  again  held  a  consultation.  Bill 
was  for  leaving  the  babe  at  Mr.  Saunders,  and  then 
leaving  the  country.  To  this  Steve  would  only 
agree  on  conditions,  and  they  were  that  if  Abbie 
came  herself  for  the  child  she  should  have  it,  but 
he  would  not  give  it  to  any  of  the  "Saunders 
clique."  Bill  finally  agreed,  and  they  drove  for 
ward. 

They  soon  reached  the  gate.  Mrs.  Saunders  ran 
eagerly  to  the  door,  hoping  to  get  the  child.  Steve 
called  for  Abbie,  saying  she  could  have  her  babe  if 
she  cared  enough  for  it  to  come  to  the  sleigh  after 
it,  if  not,  he  would  not  give  her  another  chance. 

Mrs.  Saunders  replied  that  Abbie  was  not  there, 
but  that  she  would  see  that  she  had  the  babe  before 
night,  if  he  would  give  it  to  her,  in  her  anxiety 
coming  close  to  his  side. 

He  took  care  that  she  should  see  the  child,  but 
utterly  refused  to  either  give  it  up  or  to  believe 
that  Abbie  was  not  there,  using  all  his  arts  to  entice 


THE    FLIGHT.  247 

her  to  come  out.  He  made  solemn  promises  not 
to  molest  her  if  she  came,  while  he  fully  intended 
to  entice  her  to  his  side,  then  force  her  into  the 
sleigh  and  drive  away  before  anyone  could  interfere. 
Becoming  convinced  that  further  parley  was  use 
less,  he  told  Bill  to  drive  on,  telling  Mrs.  Saunders, 
who  had  pleaded  in  vain  for  the  child,  that  Abbie 
had  lost  her  last  chance  of  getting  her  babe.  Then, 
springing  to  his  feet,  he  again  held  the  babe  far 
above  his  head,  while  he  performed  the  same  gyra 
tions  as  before. 

Arriving  at  old  Mr.  Thomas',  the  same  scene  was 
enacted,  the  women  trying  in  vain  to  get  possession 
of  the  babe,  when  its  little  form  was  again  held  aloft, 
while  its  inhuman  father  danced  and  shouted  like  a 
madman.  The  cries  of  the  child  were  distinctly 
heard  until  lost  in  the  distance. 

They  had  chosen  the  best  time  possible  for  this 
exhibition,  as  none  but  women  were  at  home  in 
either  house.  Raz  and  several  others  had  searched 
all  day  and  far  into  the  night  for  the  abductors, 
but  for  some  unaccountable  reason  had  not  dis 
covered  their  track  since  losing  it  soon  after  start 
ing.  After  taking  some  refreshment  and  resting 
a  few  hours,  they  had  again  started  out,  just  at 
break  of  day,  and  were  still  absent.  Anda  and 
old  Mr.  Thomas  had  gone  to  the  village.  So  it 
happened  that  when  most  needed  they  were  absent, 
and  the  brothers  went  on  their  way  rejoicing. 

After  leaving  Mr.  Thomas'  they  were  obliged  to 


248  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

make  a  short  circuit  in  order  to  avoid  the  village. 
Then  they  took  a  direct  route  for  home,  never  stop 
ping  until  compelled  by  hunger  and  fatigue  to  seek 
shelter  for  the  night.  Taking  warning  by  their  first 
blunder,  they  this  time  agreed  upon  what  story  they 
should  tell  to  account  for  the  possession  of  the 
child.  This  was  that,  the  mother  being  dead,  they 
were,  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  mother  before 
her  death,  taking  the  child  to  its  grandparents  in 
Wisconsin,  and  that  the  mother  had  died  at  the 
house  of  a  brother  who  had  refused  to  give  up  the 
child,  and  had  threatened  to  recover  it  before  they 
left  the  State.  Fearing  he  might  attempt  to  carry 
his  threat  into  execution,  they  entreated  the  lady 
who  took  care  of  the  child  to  inform  them  im 
mediately  if  anyone  should  call  during  the  night. 
They  again  retired  to  an  upper  room,  leaving  the 
babe  in  the  hands  of  strangers. 

But  there  was  little  danger  that  it  would  be  neg 
lected,  and  again  was  Abbie's  babe  faithfully  watched 
and  carefully  nursed  the  livelong  night,  while  far 
away  her  arms  and  heart  were  aching  for  the  privi 
lege. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  village,  where  we  left 
Jim  Brooks  making  way  with  the  ham,  eggs,  and 
other  eatables  placed  before  him,  while  a  crowd 
stood  near  the  door,  anxiously  waiting  his  appear 
ance  and  the  story  he  was  to  tell. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

JIM  BROOKS'  STORY. 

T  last,  unable  to  eat  another  morsel,  he  en 
tered  the  barroom  and  signaled  to  them 
that  the  story  was  about  to  begin. 
"  You  see,"  said  he,  "  me  and  a  lot  of  others  joined 
Raz  with  the  determination  of  hunting  the  rascals 
down.  We  hadn't  gone  far,  however,  when  we 
completely  lost  their  track,  and  do  all  we  could, 
we  could  not  strike  it  again.  They  had  taken  a 
different  course  from  what  they  should  to  get  to 
Wisconsin,  so  we  made  up  our  minds  we'd  find  'em 
hid  somewhere  not  far  off.  But  I'll  be  plagued 
if  we  could  find  hide  or  hair  of  'em,  and  it  was 
after  midnight  before  we  got  there  to  Saunders' 
Raz  was  mighty  oneasy  to  get  home,  for  fear  there 
would  be  trouble  before  we  got  there,  but  when  he 
found  that  his  sister  had  been  sent  down  here,  he 
felt  better.  He  says  all  they  took  the  young-un  for 
was  to  get  hold  of  her . 

"Well,  then,  after  getting  a  bite  to  eat,  and  rest 
ing  awhile,  we  put  out  again,  just  as  it  was  coming 
light.  But,  do  all  we  could,  we  could  get  no  clue 
till  about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  when  we  came 
upon  their  track  about  three  miles  from  here,  going 
towards  Saunders."  We  were  mighty  glad  on't,  for 

(249) 


25O  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

we  had  about  gi'n  up  beat.  We  followed  on  as  fast 
as  we  could,  and  reached  Saunders'  about  half  past 
'leven.  We  found  that  they  had  been  there  with  the 
young-un,  but  refused  to  give  it  to  anyone  but  the 
mother.  She  wasn't  at  home,  and  he  drove  off 
holding  the  babe  above  his  head  and  dancing  and 
shouting  like  mad.  The  cowardly  villain!  if  we 
could  have  caught  him,  he  would  have  danced  a 
different  jig  before  now.  Well,  when  the  boys  heard 
this,  they  dashed  after  them  as  fast  as  their  tired 
horses  could  go,  never  asking  how  long  they  had 
been  gone,  or  nothing,  bent  on  catching  them  at  last. 
When  we  got  to  old  Thomas',  we  found  they  had 
been  there  too,  going  through  the  same  performance 
as  before.  Young  Mrs.  Saunders  says  the  babe  was 
crying,  so  they  know  they  were  not  fooled.  We 
asked  how  long  they  had  been  gone  and  found  that 
they  were  at  least  two  hours  ahead  of  us,  so  we  con 
cluded  to  go  home  and  get  fresh  horses  and  start 
again.  Raz  declares  that  he  won't  sleep  until  the 
rascals  are  caught,  and  several  of  the  boys  say  they 
will  stand  by  him.  They  sent  me  on  to  see  which 
way  they  went,  and  then  come  here.  They  have 
taken  the  old  road  through  the  woods  and  gone 
straight  for  Wisconsin.  Raz  wanted  me  to  tell  you 
boys  that  if  any  of  you  was  ready  to  lend  a  helping 
hand,  you  are  to  meet  him  at  the  bridge  at  three." 
It  was  now  two  o'clock,  but  at  the  stroke  ot  three 
a  band  of  mounted  men  were  at  the  appointed  spot. 
On  counting  up  their  men  the*  was  found  to  be 


JIM    BROOKS     STORY.  25 1 

twenty-three.  They  at  once  decided  that  so  large 
a  number  was  not  necessary,  and  all  but  ten  returned 
to  the  village.  The  rest  pressed  on  eagerly  after 
the  brothers. 

While  daylight  lasted  it  was  easy  to  track  them, 
but  as  the  darkness  increased  the  difficulties  became 
greater.  They  might  have  stopped  at  one  of  the 
many  farmhouses  along  the  road,  and  it  was  more 
than  likely  their  pursuers  would  pass  without  sus 
pecting  the  fact.  As  the  snow  began  to  fall,  de 
stroying  all  hope  of  tracking  their  enemy,  the  pur 
suers  halted  and  held  a  council. 

Some  were  of  the  opinion  that  they  had  already 
passed  them,  and  all  agreed  that  further  pursuit  was 
useless.  They  turned  their  horses'  heads  reluctantly 
toward  home,  where  in  due  time  they  arrived,  mad 
der  if  not  wiser  men.  And  their  feelings  were  in 
no  wise  soothed  when,  a  few  days  later,  they  learned 
that  they  had  turned  back  just  three  miles  short  of 
the  house  where  their  intended  victims  were  then 
sleeping,  oblivious  of  danger,  and  from  which  th£y 
continued  their  journey,  bearing  with  them  the 
almost  inanimate  form  of  the  little  Ella. 

Although,  through  the  kind  and  judicious  treat 
ment  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thaylor,  she  had  escaped  that 
terrible  scourge  to  children,  the  croup,  yet  her  little 
form  could  not  bear  up  against  the  exposure  she 
was  obliged  to  endure,  and  when  at  last  she  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Harrison,  she  was  more 
dead  than  alive,  and  but  little  hopes  were  enter 
tained  that  she  would  live  until  morning. 


252  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

Shocked  and  surprised  at  the  condition  of  the 
babe,  and  at  the  nonappearance  of  the  mother,  as 
soon  as  the  children  had  retired  and  they  were  left 
alone  with  their  brother,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harrison 
demanded  an  explanation  of  the  strange  affair. 

Steve,  since  eating  his  supper,  had  sat  near  his 
babe,  sometimes  gazing  at  its  waxen  face,  in  which 
no  signs  of  consciousness,  and  we  might  almost  add 
of  life,  appeared,  or,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  strove  to  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  terrible 
consequences  of  his  rash  act,  which  now,  in  his 
cooler  moments,  stood  forth  in  all  its  hideousness. 
He  remembered  his  inhuman  exultation  when  the 
plan  was  proposed  to  him,  and  his  untiring  efforts  to 
carry  it  out,  how  he  had  deceived  his  brother  in 
regard  to  Abbie's  readiness  to  leave  her  friends,  and 

o 

had  misconstrued  her  actions  lest  he  should  be 
undeceived.  He  thought  of  the  yearning,  pleading 
look  in  the  face  of  the  young  mother  as  she  begged 
for  the  restoration  of  her  child,  of  the  anger  he  had 
felj»at  her  firmness  in  regard  to  her  own  position, 
and  of  his  unspoken  threat  against  the  life  of  the 
child  for  which  she  pleaded. 

He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  this,  for  he  knew 
that  in  his  heart  he  had  longed  for  the  cour 
age  to  do  the  deed,  and  thus  trample  her  heart  be 
neath  his  feet.  He  thought  of  his  cruel  exposure 
of  the  little  one,  who  now  lay  so  calm  and  pale 
before  him,  slowly  breathing  its  life  away.  His  very 
soul  shrank  with  horror  at  the  terrible  picture.  His 
babe,  his  pure,  innocent  babe,  dying,  and  by  his  hand! 


JIM  BROOKS    STORY.  253 

Until  arriving  here  he  had  quieted  his  mind  with 
the  thought  that  when  he  should  place  the  babe  in 
the  care  of  his  sister,  it  would  revive ;  but  he  could 
no  longer  doubt  its  true  condition,  and  he  well 
knew  that  should  the  babe  die  now,  he  was  as 
surely  its  murderer  as  though  he  had  put  his  dia 
bolical  threat  into  execution.  The  thought  was 
.torture,  and  as  he  gazed  on  the  waxen  face,  he 
deeply  regretted  the  course  he  had  taken. 

When,  therefore,  he  was  requested  to  give  an 
account  of  his  strange  act,  he  almost  decided  to  tell 
the  whole  truth.  But  ere  he  could  frame  words 
with  which  to  speak,  his  evil  nature  gained  control, 
and,  arguing  that  it  could  in  no  way  benefit  the 
injured  parties,  and  would  bring  reproach  from  his 
friends,  he  again  had  recourse  to  equivocation  and 
falsehood. 

Trusting  to  his  ready  tongue,  he  began  his  story, 
but  such  was  the  state  of  his  mind  that,  though  he 
sought  as  far  as  possible  to  shield  himself  from 
blame  and  implicate  Abbie,  his  story  was  so  discon 
nected  and  improbable  that  both  were  convinced 
that  he  was  hiding  the  truth.  Their  hearts  were 
filled  with  indignation,  not  only  because  he  could 
be  capable  of  such  meanness,  but  that  he  could,  in 
the  presence  of  his  dying  child,  attempt  to  shield 
himself  with  falsehood.  From  his  own  showing 
they  felt  fully  convinced  that  his  young  wife  had 
been  cruelly  treated,  and  that  the  abduction  of  the 
child  had  been  actuated  more  by  revenge  against  the 


ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

mother  than  love  for  the  child.  Indeed,  had  he 
loved  the  babe  he  would  rather  have  borne  the 
separation  than  thus  subject  the  little  one  to  expos 
ure  which  could  scarce  fail  to  result  in  its  death. 

But  they  were  too  anxious  about  the  fate  of  the 
babe  to  wish  to  reproach  the  father.  For  two  long 
days  and  nights  the  babe  seemed  to  flutter  between 
life  and  death.  At  last,  to  the  unspeakable  relief  of 
all,  it  showed  signs  of  recovery.  When  it  was  pro 
nounced  out  of  danger,  Steve's  friends  all  joined 
in  an  attempt  to  persuade  him  to  return  it  to  its 
mother. 

This  he  refused  to  do,  for,  as  the  fear  of  its  death 
vanished,  his  anger  returned  in  all  its  force.  But 
finally,  after  the  lapse  of  three  weeks,  yielding  to 
the  entreaty  of  his  friends  and  his  own  curiosity, 
he  again  bent  his  steps  toward  Minnesota,  where  we 
will  leave  him  and  return  to  Abbie. 

In  blissful  ignorance  of  the  condition  of  her  child, 
and  having  full  faith  in  God  that  he  could  and  would, 
even  though  it  should  be  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
again  allow  her  to  press  her  babe  to  her  breast  (for 
so  plain  had  come  to  her,  as  she  knelt  in  her  cham 
ber  that  day,  the  full  assurance  that  her  prayer  had 
been  heard  and  would  be  answered,  that  she  had 
not  for  a  moment  doubted),  she  had  so  resolutely 
held  her  emotions  in  check  that,  but  for  her  pale 
face,  from  which  the  color  had  entirely  disappeared, 
the  pained  expression  of  the  mouth,  and  the  un 
wonted  fire  in  her  eyes,  her  friends  might  have  been 


JIM  BROOKS'  STORY.  255 

deceived  into  the  belief  that  she  felt  no  interest  in 
the  fate  of  her  child. 

Though  she  seemed  so  calm,  and  her  faith  in 
God's  promise  was  so  strong,  yet  she  could  not 
shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  her  darling  must  suf 
fer  the  penalty  of  outraged  nature,  and,  though  it 
should  be  again  restored  to  her,  its  frail  form  be 
doomed  to  untold  suffering,  from  which  she  was 
powerless  to  relieve  it.  Horrible  pictures  of  suffer 
ing  and  neglect  tortured  her  brain,  struggle  as  she 
would  to  drive  them  out,  and  but  for  the  continued 
prayer  that  rose  from  her  heart,  "O  God,  help  thy 
servant  to  trust  in  thee!"  she  must  have  sunk  under 
their  weight.  But  ever  and  anon  as  the  cry  rose  to 
heaven,  the  answer  seemed  borne  back  to  her, 
"Trust  thou  in  me,  for  I  will  surely  deliver  thee 
from  thy  affliction." 

Let  those  who  will  scoff  at  prayer.  Abbte  would 
not  have  exchanged  her  faith  in  prayer  and  her 
trust  in  God  for  ail  the  wealth  the  world  could  give. 

Mr.  Sherman,  the  gentleman  into  whose  family 
she  had  been  welcomed,  was  a  minister,  the  same 
who  had  performed  her  marriage  ceremony.  His 
wife  also  was  a  pious  woman.  They  sympathized 
deeply  with  her  in  her  affliction,  heaping  many  kind 
nesses  upon  her,  and  trying  as  far  as  they  were  able 
to  lighten  her  grief. 

A  room  was  provided  for  her  near  their  own,  and 
every  comfort  furnished.  But  solitude  is  a  poor 
antidote  for  a  diseased  mind.  It  often  became  intol- 


256  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

erable  to  her,  and  she  would  join  the  family  in  the 
large  sitting  room.  Here  was  life  and  bustle  enough, 
but  she  was  still  doomed  to  inactivity.  Mrs.  Sher 
man  thought  that  in  supplying  every  known  want, 
while  she  scarcely  allowed  her  to  wait  upon  herself, 
she  was  doing  all  that  could  be  done  to  lighten  the 
burden  poor  Abbie  had  to  bear.  But  to  Abbie, 
who  had  always  been  accustomed  to  active  labor, 
this  idle  life  was  almost  unbearable,  and  she  often 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  assist  in  the  household 
labor,  but  was  as  often  refused.  Mrs.  Sherman, 
knowing  nothing  of  Abbie's  feelings,  feared  that  it 
would  be  taking  advantage  of  her  position,  while 
Abbie,  being  young  and  sensitive,  and  fearing  that 
she  might  not  give  satisfaction,  dared  not  urge  the 
matter. 

Thus  day  after  day  went  by  with  nothing  to  relieve 
their  monotony,  while  Mr.  Sherman,  who  was  read 
ing  the  history  of  Flavius  Josephus,  would  take  his 
seat  by  the  fire  and  read  aloud,  sometimes  for  hours, 
in  that  slow,  monotonous  tone  so  peculiar  to  him, 
emphasizing  each  word  as  though  the  whole  sense  of 
the  book  depended  upon  it,  until  Abbie  grew  almost 
wild.  Though  Mr.  Sherman  was  a  fair  speaker, 
he  was  by  no  means  a  pleasant  reader,  and  Abbie 
acquired  such  an  antipathy  to  that  book  that  she 
could  never  after  listen  to  the  reading  of  it  with  any 
degree  of  patience. 

As  soon  as  it  was  ascertained  that  the  brothers 
were  indeed  gone,  Abbie's  counsel  had  taken  steps 


JIM    BROOKS     STORY.  257 

by  which  they  might  be  informed  of  their  arrival  at 
B.  By  this  means  she  had  learned  of  the  safety 
of  her  child,  that  it  was  in  good  hands,  that  its 
arrival  had  created  a  strong  prejudice  among 
Steve's  relatives  against  him,  that  they  were  unani 
mous  in  urging  him  to  return  it  to  its  mother,  and 
that  they  had  taken  steps  to  guard  against  its  removal 
from  its  present  position  without  their  immediate 
knowledge. 

This  was  a  great  consolation  to  her.  She  had 
great  confidence  in  the  integrity  of  his  people, 
especially  this  sister  in  whose  care  the  child  had 
been  placed.  Feeling  thankful  for  the  consolation 
thus  unexpectedly  vouchsafed  to  her  in  her  affliction, 
she  strove  more  earnestly  to  endure  her  grief  quietly, 
if  not  cheerfully. 

After  remaining  a  week  at  the  house  of  the  min 
ister  she  one  day  received  a  call  from  the  wife  of 
the  village  merchant,  Mrs.  Anthony,  who,  having 
heard  from  Mrs.  Sherman  that  Abbie  seemed  to 
desire  employment,  and  being  in  need  of  assistance, 
called  to  secure  her  services.  Her  proposal  was 
gladly  accepted  by  our  heroine,  for  she  was  by  no 
means  averse  to  labor.  She  was  soon  established 
in  her  new  position,  and  entered  with  hearty  good 
will  into  the  performance  of  her  duties,  where,  by 
her  ready  hands,  her  quiet  manner,  and  her  strict 
attention  to  duty,  she  soon  won  the  respect  of  Mrs. 
Anthony,  who  often  tried  to  win  from  her  a  promise 
to  make  her  house  home  in  the  future. 
17 


258  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

But  though  she  was  as  happy  as  possible  with  her 
new  friends,  she  did  not  forget  her  absent  one,  or 
cease  to  pray  for  its  return.  Her  faith  was  strong,  yet 
her  heart  seemed  at  times  almost  to  burst  with  her 
intense  desire  to  clasp  her  darling  to  her  breast,  and 
she  wildly  longed  to  fly  away  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  to  the  side  of  her  precious  one.  But  no;  she 
must  wait — wait.  What  a  terrible  meaning  the 
words  had  to  the  stricken  woman!  When  would 
her  waiting  be  over,  and  her  babe  safe  in  her  arms 
again  ? 

Flying  to  her  room,  and  falling  on  her  knees, 
there  would  rise  to  heaven  such  an  earnest  prayer  as 
seldom  comes  from  the  lips  of  one  so  young.  Then, 
as  if  straight  from  the  lips  of  the  Mighty  One,  would 
come  the  words:  "Trust  in  me,  my  child,  for  I  will 
never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee."  She  would  then 
return  to  her  duty  with  that  smile  of  true  happiness 
which  only  faith  can  give. 

Three  weeks  had  passed  thus  pleasantly  away, 
when  one  morning  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Anthony  set  out 
for  a  small  town  some  twenty  miles  away,  where  they 
were  to  spend  the  night  at  the  house  of  a  brother, 
and  return  the  next  day,  leaving  Abbie  to  care  for 
the  house  during  their  absence,  with  Irvin  and 
Josie,  their  only  children,  aged  respectively  fifteen 
and  thirteen,  for  company. 

The  children  were  soon  off  to  school,  and  Abbie 
was  alone  in  the  house  for  the  first  time  since  enter 
ing  it.  A  feeling  of  utter  loneliness  took  posses- 


JIM    BROOKS     STORY.  259 

sion  of  her,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  could 
shake  it  off.  But  she  went  resolutely  to  work,  and 
had  soon  nearly  forgotten  her  fears. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  step  at  the  door.  She 
started  and  turned  pale.  Then,  thinking  her  fears 
were  foolish,  she  stepped  forward  and  opened  the 
door.  There  upon  the  step  stood  the  man  of  all 
others  that  she  most  dreaded  to  see,  Steve  Rush- 
ford. 

He  was  dressed  in  faultless  taste,  and  held  in  his 
hand  a  new  volume,  evidently  just  purchased,  be 
tween  the  leaves  of  which  one  finger  was  placed 
as  though  he  had  just  been  reading,  while  on  his 
face  played  that  sanctified  smile  which  Abbie  had 
such  good  cause  to  remember,  and  which  he  was 
never  known  to  wear  except  when  bent  on  some 
rascality. 

Abbie  stood    for  a  moment  perfectly  paralyzed 

with  fear,  before  she  attempted  to  close  the  door, 

which  he  prevented  by  placing  one  foot  in  the  way. 

"Oh,  don't  be  in  a  hurry!"  he  said,  in  his  most 

persuasive  tone.     "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

"But  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  with  you,"  she  re 
plied,  again  trying  to  shut  the  door. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  balked  in  this  way,  and, 
pushing  open  the  door,  he  entered  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  after  him. 

Then  he  said  :  "  You  need  not  be  afraid.  I  only 
wish  to  speak  with  you,  and  give  you  this;  and  he 
held  out  the  book  which  he  had  in  his  hand,  and 
which  Abbie  instantly  recognized  as  the  Bible. 


26O  ABBIE   SAUXDERS. 

Her  thoughts  instantly  reverted  to  the  last  week 
of  her  stay  with  him.  In  his  efforts  to  draw  some 
word  of  complaint  from  her,  he  had  taken  the  babe 
to  the  fire,  and  then,  taking  from  a  shelf  a  Bible  that 
had  been  a  gift  from  her  brother,  proceeded  to  read 
aloud  to  the  child  for  some  time. 

Then,  turning  to  her,  he  said,  "Why,  Abbie,  this 
child  is  a  perfect  heathen.  She  don't  show  a  bit  of 
reverence  for  the  Bible." 

Again  turning  to  the  babe,  he  gave  it  quite  a  lec 
ture  on  the  sacredness  of  the  Bible,  quite  enough, 
Abbie  thought,  to  prove  that  he  at  least  had  no  rev 
erence  for  it.  Then,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden 
thought,  he  added,  "Oh,  I  know  what  I  can  do!  If 
I  cannot  make  her  learn  the  Bible,  I  can  at  least 
make  her  eat  it." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  tore  leaf  after 
leaf  from  the  book  and  stuffed  them  into  the  mouth 
of  the  helpless  child,  until  it  was  nearly  suffocated, 
resisting  so  long  the  efforts  of  the  mother  to  take 
the  child  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could  bring 
back  its  breath.  At  last  the  scraps  of  paper  were 
removed  and  the  child  breathed  freely  once  more, 
but  so  great  had  been  the  fright  of  the  mother  that 
she  burst  into  tears,  when  he  said,  sneeringly: 
"  There,  don't  cry.  I  am  sorry  I  tore  your  book, 
but  the  babe  needed  it,  and  I'll  buy  you  another 
some  day." 

As  soon,  therefore,  as  Abbie  recognized  the  book, 
this  incident  came  fresh  to  her  mind,  and  as  he  held 


JIM    BROOK.s'    STORY.  26 1 

the  book  toward  her,  she  felt  such  indignation  at 
his  heartless  cruelty  and  bold  effrontery  that  for 
once  she  longed  for  the  strength  to  strike  him  to 
the  ground. 

He  continued  to  hold  out  the  book,  till,  g-ainino- 

*   o  t> 

control  of  her  voice,  she  said,  "  I  do  not  want  your 
book." 

"What,  don't  want  a  Bible?  How  wicked  you 
must  be !  Well,"  opening  it,  and  taking  from  be 
tween  its  leaves  a  lock  of  shining  baby  hair,  while 
his  face  lit  up  with  a  cruel  smile,  "  here  is  something 
I  think  you  will  want.  See,  I  have  brought  you  a 
lock  of  your  baby's  hair." 

She  turned  deadly  pale,  and  shrank  back  as 
though  she  had  received  a  blow. 

He  advanced  toward  her,  still  holding  the  shin 
ing  curl  in  his  hand.  "I  should  think  you  would 
want  this  to  remember  your  baby  by." 

"O  God!  "  she  thought,  as  she  recoiled  still  far 
ther,  unable  to  speak,  "can  it  be  he  fears  I  shall  for 
get  my  babe?  No,  no,  it  is  only  a  new  device  to 
torture  me." 

Sending  up  a  prayer  to  heaven  for  strength,  she 
arose  and  stood  before  him,  pale  but  defiant.  "Sir, 
I  will  not  touch  your  cruel  memento,  and  I  request 
you  to  leave  the  house  immediately." 

"What,"  said  he,  not  heeding  her  last  words, 
"not  accept  a  lock  of  your  baby's  hair,  when  it  is  so 
far  away,  and  you  may  never  see  it  again  ?  So!  you 
must  be  heartless  as  well  as  wicked." 


262  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

He  paused  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  words,  then 
continued,  after  looking  her  over  as  if  she  were 
some  strange  animal:— 

"A  cruel,  heartless  mother!  After  her  babe  has 
been  taken  away,  and  she  has  not  seen  it  for  so 
long,  she  will  not  take  a  lock  of  its  hair.  Mon 
strous  ! " 

These  words,  and  many  more  of  like  import,  were 
uttered  by  him  as  he  stood  with  his  back  against 
the  door,  thus,  as  he  thought,  effectually  hindering 
the  escape  of  his  victim.  They  were  uttered  in 
slow,  murmuring  tones,  as  if  speaking  to  himself, 
while  every  word  entered  the  mother's  heart  like  a 
knife. 

At  last  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and,  throw 
ing  up  her  arms  in  agony,  she  cried  out,  "  Oh,  leave 
me,  leave  me,  I  beg!" 

Her  answer  was  a  derisive  laugh. 

Starting  to  her  feet,  she  cried,  "  Leave  this  house 
instantly,  or  I  will  leave  it,"  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  door  leading  through  the  hall  and  out  at  a 
door  in  the  front  part  of  the  house.  This  door  was 
seldom  used,  as  the  undisturbed  snow  on  its  step 
had  told  Steve  before  he  entered.  Abbie  did  not 
remember  that  it  had  been  opened  since  her  arrival, 
so,  although  she  had  thought  of  that  way  of  escape, 
she  dared  not  attempt  it  for  fear  of  becoming  a  pris 
oner  in  the  hall,  until  driven  to  it  by  very  despera 
tion. 

Steve,  seeing  her  look  of  determination,  and  not 


JIM  BROOKS'  STORY.  263 

caring  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  villagers,  as  she 
probably  would  if  she  left  the  house,  very  willingly 
signified  his  intention  of  going,  only  waiting  long 
enough  to  hope  he  might  see  her  again  soon,  as  he 
had  important  business  to  transact  with  her. 

The  house  in  which  she  was  stood  at  some  dis 
tance  from  any  other,  and,  not  daring  to  remain 
longer  alone,  she  hurriedly  threw  on  her  wraps,  and, 
securing  the  door  behind  her,  went  quickly  down 
the  street  and  entered  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Walters. 
She  had  scarcely  entered  the  house  when  she  re 
ceived  a  message  from  Steve,  delivered  in  the  hear 
ing  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  saying  that  he 
wished  to  see  her  and  make  some  necessary  arrange 
ments,  as  he  had  decided  to  bring  back  the  child  if 
such  was  her  request. 

On  leaving  the  house  in  which  he  had  so  cruelly 
treated  Abbie,  he  had  immediately  entered  the  vil 
lage  store,  where  several  men  were  lounging,  and 
hurriedly  said  that  he  had  come  to  make  arrange 
ments  for  returning  the  child  to  its  mother,  and 
that  he  had  visited  the  house  where  she  resided  but 
had  been  refused  admittance. 

"Where  is  the  child?"  asked  one  of  the  loungers. 

"It  is  not  far  off,"  replied  Steve  readily,  "and  all 
I  want  is  to  make  a  reasonable  bargain  about  the 
bringing  up,  and  she  shall  have  it." 

"That's  fair,"  said  the  man  who  had  before 
spoken.  "  I  guess  I  know  what's  the  matter.  The 
folks  are  all  gone,  and  she  was  afraid." 


264  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

Steve  feigned  great  surprise  at  this  information, 
and,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful  silence,  said, 
"Maybe  you  are  right."  Then,  looking  anxiously 
into  the  man's  face,  he  continued :  "Do  you  think  she 
would  come  down  here?  She  could  not  be  afraid 
while  you  are  all  here.  I  did  a  foolish  trick  to  take 
the  babe  in  the  first  place.  All  my  folks  are  down 
on  me,  and  I  don't  like  to  take  it  back.  But  I  don't 
want  to  give  it  to  her  without  a  word." 

"That's  fair,"  said  the  man  again;  "and  if  you 
say  so,  I'll  go  and  ask  her  myself." 

Steve  seemed  very  grateful  for  the  offer,  and  the 
self-appointed  messenger  started  on  his  way,  sup 
posing  the  babe  to  be  in  the  village,  or  at  least  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood.  Seeing  Abbie  enter 
the  house  of  Mr.  Walters,  he  quickly  followed  and 
delivered  his  message  with  great  gusto.  He  was 
greatly  surprised  to  see  on  the  mother's  face,  in 
stead  of  the  joy  he  expected,  a  look  of  annoyance 
and  anger.  She  did  not  speak,  and  all  looked  at 
her  in  wonder  and  surprise. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible  for  her  to  explain 
her  feelings  at  that  moment.  She  did  not  believe 
that  her  child  was  near,  or  that  he  had  any  notion 
of  returning  it,  and,  still  smarting  under  the  cruel 
treatment  she  had  but  that  hour  received  at  his 
hands,  is  it  strange  that  she  did  not  receive  the 
message  with  favor? 

"Will  you  come?"  again  asked  the  messenger. 

"  No,"  was  ail  the  answer  she  gave,  and  it  seemed 


JIM    BROOKS     STORY.  265 

to  her  that  she  could  not  have  uttered  another  word 
for  her  life. 

"No!"  echoed  all  three  in  a  breath.  "Why, 
woman,  you  surely  are  crazy!  " 

This  was  too  much,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands,  she  wept  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

All  were  touched  by  her  grief,  and  the  woman 
quickly  said:  "Poor  thing!  you  frighten  her.  Of 
course  she  does  not  want  to  go  down  there  among 
a  lot  of  men.  Go  and  tell  him  to  come  here  if  he 
wants  to  see  her." 

"  That's  what's  the  matter,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wal 
ters,  evidently  considering  his  wife  a  very  smart 
woman. 

"Are  you  willing?"  asked  the  messenger,  look 
ing  at  Abbie. 

She  silently  gave  her  assent,  for  her  heart  was 
too  full  for  words.  She  believed  the  interview  would 
only  result  in  torture  to  her. 

Mistaking  her  emotions,  and  in  total  ignorance 
of  her  morning's  adventure,  Mrs.  Walters  answered 
for  her,  "Of  course  she  is  willing,  so  go  along." 

He  needed  no  further  bidding,  and  left  the  house, 
but  soon  returned  with  the  man  he  was  in  search  of. 

Steve  had  started  nervously  on.  hearing  that  Ab 
bie  was  at  a  neighbor's.  He  did  not  wish  the  oc 
currence  of  the  morning  to  be  made  public,  and 
it  did  not  take  him  long  to  reach  the  designated 
place.  He  anxiously  scanned  the  faces  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Walters  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  was  soon 


266  ABBIE    SAUXDERS. 

conviced  that  they  had  heard  nothing.  Thus  placed 
at  his  ease,  he  at  once  opened  negotiations  by  say 
ing  that  he  had  acted  in  a  very  foolish  way  in  tak 
ing  the  child  from  its  mother,  that  he  sincerely  re 
gretted  the  rash  act,  but  that  he  had  been  actuated 
by  a  feeling  of  anger  toward  the  Saunders"  family. 
He  had  thought  that  he  could  not  see  his  child 
brought  up  there,  and  in  a  moment  of  anger  had 
taken  it  away.  But  he  deeply  loved  and  pitied  his 
wife,  and,  remembering  that  she  was  not  to  blame 
for  the  wrongs  her  family  had  committed,  he  had 
concluded  to  bring  back  the  babe,  and  if  she  was 
willing  to  make  an  agreement  that  would  allow  of 
his  seeing  it,  and  knowing  it  was  properly  brought 
up,  he  would  gladly  give  it  to  her.  During  this  lit 
tle  speech  his  air  was  that  of  a  man  who,  in  a  sud 
den  fit  of  anger,  had  committed  a  rash  act  for  which 
he  was  willing  to  make  all  the  amends  in  his  power. 

We  have  said  that  he  was  a  good  actor,  and  so 
well  did  he  act  his  part  that  his  hearers  did  not  for 
a  moment  doubt  his  sincerity,  and  when  he  laid 
down  his  rule  of  agreement  they  were  ready  to 
believe  that  it  was  all  right. 

Abbie  at  once  saw  her  mistake  in  coming  to  the 
house  of  a  comparative  stranger,  when  a  few  steps 
further  would  have  taken  her  among  staunch  friends, 
who  would  have  understood  his  wiles.  She  at  once 
determined  to  make  no  agreement  whatever.  She 
had  no  faith  in  him,  and  would  not  trust  him  so 
much  as  to  place  herself  in  any  degree  in  his  power. 


JIM  BROOKS'  STORY.  267 

Having  made  her  decision,  she  became  calm  and 
apparently  interested,  while  he  laid  down  the  rules 
by  which  she  was  to  be  governed  when  she  should 
get  the  child. 

Firstly,  she  was  not  to  stay  at  her  father's;  sec 
ondly,  she  was  not  to  stay  in  any  home  provided  by 
Raz ;  thirdly,  he  was  to  see  the  babe  as  often  and 
as  much  as  he  pleased;  fourthly,  he  was  to  have 
the  privilege  of  supporting  the  child  and  have  a 
voice  in  its  education.  He  furthermore  added  that, 
in  case  Abbie  should  find  trouble  in  securing  a 
home  on  account  of  her  agreement  with  him,  he 
would  see  that  she  was  provided  for,  even  if  he  had 
to  pay  her  board  himself. 

As  we  said  before,  after  Abbie's  decision  had  been 
made,  she  became  calm  and  collected,  and  as  firstly, 
secondly,  thirdly,  and  fourthly  were  laid  down  by 
him,  she  could  not  help  longing  to  speak,  as  some 
queries  were  presented  to  her  mind. 

He  had  grown  quite  eloquent  in  his  little  speech. 

When  at  last  he  paused  for  her  opinion,  she 
asked,  rather  than  said,  "So  you  wish  me  to  agree 
not  to  live  at  father's?" 

"  I  certainly  do,  as  I  do  not  want  my  child  brought 
up  there." 

"Quite  a  reasonable  request,"  said  she,  sarcas 
tically.  "  Neither  am  I  to  look  to  Raz  for  a  home, 
nor  accept  one  if  he  should  offer  it?" 

"No,  indeed!"  he  said,  trying  to  look  indignant. 

"Another  very  reasonable  request.     And  I  am  to 


268  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

let  you  see  the  child  as  much  and  whenever  you 
please?" 

"Yes,"  with  rather  a  crestfallen  air,  for  he  began 
to  see  that  she  was  quizzing  him. 

"  Now,  let  me  see  if  I  understand  it  aright.  I  am 
not  to  accept  either  of  the  homes  that  are  likely  to 
be  offered  me;  I  am  to  let  you  see  Ella  when  and 
as  long  as  you  please;  I  am  to  accept  of  your 
support  for  her,  and  allow  your  control  of  her; 
and  I,  in  case  I  cannot  find  a  home,  am  to  accept  of 
one  at  your  hands.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  must 
either  decline  your  generous  offer,  or  that  I  had  bet 
ter  go  with  you  at  once.  And,  as  I  am  not  pre 
pared  for  that  step,  I  must  decline." 

A  smile  had  gradually  gathered  on  the  faces  of  the 
half  dozen  men  who  had  assembled  to  witness  the 
agreement,  and,  as  she  finished,  it  widened  into  a 
broad  grin,  or  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

Steve  was  fairly  beaten,  but,  not  wishing  to  ac 
knowledge  his  defeat,  he  said :  "  I  am  sorry  you  do 
not  at  once  accept  my  offer.  I  will  give  you  till  to 
morrow  at  ten  to  make  your  final  decision." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  left  the  house. 

Abbie  now  desired  to  return  home,  but,  fearful  of 
further  molestation,  she  hesitated. 

"I  would  not  go,"  said  Mrs.  Walters. 

"  But  I  must,"  replied  Abbie.  "  Mrs.  Anthony  is 
not  at  home,  and  the  house  is  alone.  Yet  I  am 
afraid  it  is  not  safe." 

"  He  surely  would  not  molest  you,"  said  one. 


JIM  BROOKS'  STORY.  269 

"  He  surely  would  if  he  dare,"  she  replied,  and 
they  were  convinced  that  hers  was  no  idle  fear. 

They  immediately  volunteered  to  keep  close 
watch  of  him,  and  she  returned  home  to  take  up  her 
neglected  duties. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD. 

leaving  Mr.  Walters',  Steve  had  immedi 
ately  left  town,  and  was  not  seen  again  that 
day. 

Rumors  of  the  interview  were  rife  in  town.  Some 
extolled  Abbie's  courage  and  penetration,  while 
some  thought  that  by  her  wit  she  had  lost  all  chance 
of  getting  the  child,  some  doting  mothers,  in  par 
ticular,  saying  they  would  have  agreed  to  anything 
until  they  got  the  child,  then  do  as  they  pleased 
about  keeping  their  word. 

But  that  was  not  her  idea  of  right.  Besides,  she 
had  no  faith  that  any  agreement  whatever  would  re 
store  her  babe,  and  if  she  did  recover  it,  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  in  any  way  beholden  to  him,  but  was  de 
termined  to  cut  all  acquintance  with  him,  if  possi 
ble,  for  his  actions  that  morning  had  convinced  her 
that  his  feelings  were  in  no  way  changed  or  even 
softened  by  what  had  passed. 

Her  troubles  were  the  theme  of  the  day  through 
out  the  town,  and  when  Irvin  returned  from  school 
at  night  he  was  full  of  gallant  determinations  to  pro 
tect  Abbie  from  further  molestation.  But  as  they 
sat  around  the  fire  after  tea,  he  began  to  grow  un- 

(270) 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.         2/1 

easy,  and  made  some  excuse  for  leaving  the  house. 
Taking  care  that  Abbie  and  his  sister  locked  them 
selves  in,  he  hurried  away,  and,  finding  some  of  his 
chums,  soon  had  a  band  of  gallant  fellows  ready  to 
return  with  him  and  guard  his  charge  during  the 
night. 

They  crept  noiselessly  up  to  the  house,  lest  Steve 
might  be  near.  What  was  Abbie's  surprise  when 
she  opened  the  door  for  Irvin,  to  see  five  stalwart 
boys  follow  him  into  the  house !  She  was  soon  in 
formed  of  their  intentions,  and,  after  thanking  them, 
she  set  herself  to  work  to  entertain  them,  though, 
had  she  yielded  to  her  own  inclinations,  she  would 
have  retired  to  her  room. 

Her  efforts  were  seconded  by  Irvin  and  Josie,  and 
they  spent  a  very  pleasant  evening.  No  one  to  have 
seen  them  would  for  a  moment  have  taken  them  for 
a  besieged  party. 

At  length,  as  the  evening  advanced,  Abbie  and 
Josie  prepared  to  retire  to  their  rooms.  As  Abbie 
was  leaving  the  room,  Irvin,  who  had  not  for  a 
moment  forgotten  the  purpose  of  the  night,  came  to 
her  and  asked  many  questions  in  regard  to  the  evil 
propensities  of  their  common  foe,  whether  he  was  a 
good  shot,  and  whether  he  was  "  much  on  the  climb," 
and  understood  opening  of  windows,  all  of  which 
she  answered  as  well  as  she  could. 

This  was  no  easy  task,  as  she  felt  that  his  ques 
tions  were  ludicrous  in  the  extreme,  and  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  hide  the  smiles  which  both  his  words  and  his 


2/2  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

manner  would  naturally  call  forth.  She  succeeded 
in  satisfying  him,  however,  and  passed  on  to  her 
room,  when  the  work  of  barricading  the  house  be 
gan.  Strange  noises  continued  in  every  part  of  the 
house  for  a  while,  then  all  was  still. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  boys  in  the  house 
were  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  years  old,  and  that  the 
idea  that  the  house  might  be  attacked  had  not  origi 
nated  in  their  own  brain.  It  had  been  talked  of  as 
probable  by  a  knot  of  men  in  the  hearing  of  young 
Anthony.  All  had  been  surprised  at  Steve's  sudden 
disappearance  after  his  talk  with  Abbie,  and  not  a 
few  were  of  the  opinion  that  she  might  be  made  to 
suffer  for  thus  boldly  exposing  him  to  ridicule. 
Though  no  one  else  considered  it  of  enough  impor 
tance  to  warrant  any  particular  steps  being  taken, 
young  Irvin,  hearing  their  remarks,  had  formed  his 
own  opinion,  the  result  of  which  we  have  seen. 

Some  of  the  boys  had  proposed  to  stay  up  all 
night,  so  as  to  hear  the  first  approach  of  the  enemy. 
But  this  idea  was  ruled  down,  as  they  would  not 
like  to  sit  up  with  neither  fire  nor  light,  and  the 
presence  of  either  would  betray  to  the  enemy  that 
they  were  on  their  guard,  and  thus  they  might  lose 
their  fun  after  all.  Numbers,  coupled  with  locks, 
keys,  and  bolts,  had  made  them  bold,  and  they  told 
one  another  that  the  one  wish  of  their  hearts  was  to 
meet  the  baby  stealer  face  to  face,  though  how  they 
could  hope  to  do  this  in  their  present  position  was 
hard  to  tell.  They,  therefore,  decided  to  retire,  but 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.          2/3 

were  fully  determined  not  to  close  their  eyes  in 
sleep  that  night.  But  this  resolution  was  soon  for 
gotten,  and  all  fell  into  a  sound  slumber,  from  which 
they  did  not  awaken  until  morning. 

At  ten  the  next  day  Rushford  again  appeared, 
and  sent  a  messenger  to  learn  Abbie's  decision. 
She  gave  the  same  answer  she  had  given  the  day 
before.  Not  an  hour  had  passed  before  she  received 
another  message,  with  which  she  refused  to  comply. 

He  was  very  angry  at  this  continued  refusal  to 
parley  with  him,  threatening  to  take  the  child  away 
and  never  trouble  her  more,  saying  she  never  had 
had  a  mother's  feeling,  and  but  for  pity  for  the  babe 
she  should  never  see  it  again. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Anthony  and  wife  returned, 
and  she  told  them  what  had  passed.  After  ascer 
taining  her  views  in  regard  to  the  whereabouts  of 
the  babe,  Mr.  Anthony  advised  her  not  to  an 
swer  any  message  from  him  unless  delivered  by  or 
through  her  counsel,  as  they  were  no  doubt  on  the 
alert,  and  if  any  good  was  to  be  gained  they  would 
not  be  slow  to  avail  themselves  of  it.  He  com 
mended  her  judgment  in  not  meeting  Steve,  and  then, 
leaving  her  with  his  wife,  he  repaired  to  the  store, 
and  took  his  place  behind  the  counter,  to  the  great 
relief  of  Irvin,  who  was  thus  set  at  liberty. 

Irvin  did  not  need   long  to    decide  what  to  do 

next.     Leaving  the  store,  he  called    Steve  to  one 

side  and  proceeded  to  make  terms  with  him.     He 

had  been  very  angry  on  learning  that  Steve  was 

18 


2/4  ABB  IE    SAUN'DERS. 

likely  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  babe  away  again, 
(he  did  not  doubt  that  it  was  concealed  near  by), 
and  was  determined  to  prevent  it  if  possible. 

After  a  few  moments'  conversation  he  hastened 
to  the  house.  He  felt  sure  of  success,  and,  bursting 
into  the  room  where  Abbie  and  his  mother  sat,  he 
proceeded,  in  a  hurried  way,  to  say  that  Abbie  could 
have  her  babe  at  last,  that  it  was  almost  within  her 
grasp,  and  that  she  had  only  to  come  to  his  father's 
store  and  talk  a  few  words  with  Steve,  when  all 
would  be  settled  and  the  child  restored  to  her. 

At  the  first  words  Abbie,  in  spite  of  her  former 
experience,  had  started  to  her  feet  with  hope  bound 
ing  through  every  vein,  but  as  he  continued  speak 
ing,  it  died  suddenly  away,  leaving  her  to  sink  into 
a  chair,  pale  and  trembling.  Oh,  when  would  this 
cruel  torture  cease,  and  she  be  allowed  to  rest? 

Irvin  stood  by  impatiently  waiting  for  an  answer, 
when  Mrs.  Anthony  asked  what  Steve  wished  to 
talk  about,  and  why  the  child  was  not  brought  along 
if  he  was  so  anxious  to  give  it  up.  He  had  been 
hurt  at  the  manner  in  which  his  message  had  been 
received,  and  answered  impatiently  that  he  did  not 
know  what  Steve  wished  to  talk  about,  but  if  Abbie 
did  not  care  enough  for  her  babe  to  go  to  the  store 
for  it,  he  had  been  deceived,  and  would  do  no  more 
about  it. 

"Be  careful,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Anthony.  "Re 
member  you  are  speaking  to  a  lady." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  he  apolegetically.     "I  am  dis- 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.          2/5 

appointed.  I  have  done  all  I  can,  and  now,  just  as 
I  am  likely  to  succeed,  she  refuses  even  to  come  to 
the  store  and  receive  the  child.  It  is  too  bad." 

He  seemed  to  think  that  all  hope  in  the  case 
must  cease  with  his  efforts,  which  had  only  failed 
through  Abbie's  refusal  to  co-operate  with  him. 
After  using  all  his  powers  of  persuasion  on  her,  he 
left  the  house  indignantly.  Entering  his  father's 
store,  where  Steve  stood  waiting,  he  began  hurriedly 
to  announce  his  failure. 

Mr.  Anthony,  surprised  to  see  his  son  thus  ea 
gerly  conversing  with  Rushford,  inquired  of  what 
they  were  speaking.  Irvin  hesitatingly  explained 
the  matter  to  him.  Mr.  Anthony  listened  to  all  he 
had  to  say  before  quietly  advising  him  to  leave  such 
matters  for  older  heads  hereafter.  Then,  turning 
to  Rushford,  he  said:  "It  is  impossible  that  you  can 
understand  in  what  a  despicable  light  you  appear 
before  the  people  of  this  village.  You  have  been 
about  as  mean  as  man  can  well  be.  If  the  babe  is 
here,  and  you  wish  to  return  it,  you  had  better  do 
so  immediately.  If  not,  and  you  honestly  wish  to 
make  any  terms  concerning  it,  you  can  go  to  Cap 
tain  Johns  or  Squire  Price,  for  Mrs.  Rushford  will 
receive  no  message  except  through  them.  The 
sooner  matters  are  settled,  the  better,"  he  added,  as 
he  retired  to  his  place  behind  the  counter. 

Steve  quickly  left  the  store.  His  feelings  were 
anything  but  enviable.  He  had  observed  several 
things  during  the  last  few  days  that  had  tended  to 


276  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

make  him  feel  uneasy,  and  now  the  tone  and  man 
ner  of  Mr.  Anthony  seemed  to  convey  a  covert 
threat,  and  he  began  to  see  that  the  place  was  get 
ting  too  warm  for  him.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
pursuit  of  a  few  weeks  before,  for  no  one  had  been 
on  sufficiently  good  terms  with  him  to  tell  him  of  it. 
If  he  had  known  this,  he  might  have  been  more 
wary  on  his  return.  But  as  he  had  not  then  been 
molested,  he  had  felt  quite  secure.  Now  he  thought 
things  looked  a  little  squally,  and  he  had  better  get 
out  of  it  as  soon  as  he  could.  As  he  had  no  hopes 
of  any  further  concession  on  Abbie's  part,  he  went 
straight  to  Squire  Price. 

The  hour  that  had  passed  since  the  entrance  of 
Irvin  had  been  for  Abbie  the  most  wretched  of  all 
that  wretched  month.  She  had  thrown  herself  upon 
the  lounge,  where  she  lay,  pale  and  almost  mo 
tionless,  while  visions  of  the  past  and  future  chased 
one  another  through  her  throbbing  brain,  and  her 
heart  seemed  swollen  almost  to  bursting.  She  did 
not  have  power  even  to  pray.  All  hope  seemed  to 
have  vanished  from  her  forever. 

She  lay  thus  when  the  genial  face  of  Squire  Price 
was  seen  as  he  entered  the  room,  after  a  slight  pre 
liminary  tap  at  the  door.  At  sight  of  him  hope 
once  more  revived,  and  she  rose  from  her  recum 
bent  position,  but  she  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power 
of  speech.  He  broke  the  silence  by  saying  that 
he  wished  Abbie  to  come  to  his  house  to  transact 
some  business. 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.         2// 

"Is  Steve  there?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "but  you  need  not  fear.  Indeed, 
I  think  you  might  better  rejoice,  for  you  are  in  a 
fair  way  to  receive  your  child." 

At  this  she  sprang  up  eagerly,  for  she  had  faith 
in  this  man  that  he  would  not  raise  false  hopes  in 
her  breast.  She  was  soon  equipped,  and  they  were 
in  the  street. 

It  was  some  distance  to  Squire  Price's,  and  as 
they  went  along  Abbie  told  him  of  her  adventure 
of  the  day  before.  He  warmly  commended  her  for 
her  judicious  course,  and  assured  her  that  he  be 
lieved  Steve  really  intended  to  restore  the  child,  but 
that  he  would  no  doubt  have  drawn  her  into  some 
nefarious  compact  if  possible.  She  had  been  wise  in 
not  listening  to  him. 

"But  now  I  think  it  will  be  all  right,"  he  added, 
as  they  neared  the  house. 

They  entered  the  room  and  found  Steve  waiting. 
His  exultant  look  was  gone,  and  he  seemed  anxious. 
An  agreement  was  soon  made  and  signed,  he  agree 
ing  to  deliver  the  child  to  its  mother  in  ten  days, 
and  she  agreeing  after  receiving  it  to  let  him  see  it 
on  reasonable  occasions,  she  to  be  the  judge  as  to 
what  time  was  reasonable.  This  agreement  was  to 
hold  good  till  he  on  his  part  should  sever  it  by 
taking  undue  advantage  of  it,  when  it  should  be 
come  null  and  void. 

But  when  this  was  done,  he  still  seemed  in  trouble, 
and  at  last  said  that  he  was  not  sure  he  could  get 


278  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

the  child,  as  he  had  made  an  agreement  with  Mr, 
Harrison  by  which  he  was  not  to  have  the  child 
unless  accompanied  by  the  mother. 

Here  was  a  fresh  blow  to  the  poor  mother's  heart. 
We  have  seen  in  what  a  state  of  despondency  Squire 
Price  found  her.  From  this  state  she  had  been 
roused  by  the  hopeful  words  of  her  counsel,  in 
whose  judgment  she  had  perfect  confidence,  and 
hope  had  risen  to  a  high  pitch,  but  as  she  heard 
these  words  it  seemed  felled  by  one  terrible  blow. 
She  believed  that  he  had  been  again  playing  with 
her. 

But  the  Squire  was  not  to  be  thus  balked,  and 
after  a  few  moments'  conversation  he  asked  her  to 
write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Harrison,  stating  the  case,  to 
which  he  would  sign  his  affidavit,  and  this  he  be 
lieved  would  do.  Abbie  eagerly  seized  the  pen  and 
wrote — she  never  afterward  knew  what.  But  it  was 
considered  sufficient,  and,  after  writing  his  affidavit, 
and  signing  his  name,  Squire  Price  delivered  it  to 
Rushford,  who  immediately  left  the  house  and  be 
gan  his  journey,  anxious  to  put  as  many  miles  be 
tween  him  and  the  village  as  he  could  before  night. 

After  receiving  some  good  advice  from  Squire 
Price,  Abbie  returned  to  Mrs.  Anthony,  to  pass 
those  dreary  ten  days  as  best  she  might.  She  per 
formed  her  duties  as  usual,  but  they  did  not  awaken 
the  same  interest  as  before.  She  experienced  a 
strange  fluttering  at  her  heart,  a  wild  intermingling 
of  hope  and  fear,  which  was  fast  wearing  out  her 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.         279 

constitution.  Her  friends  watched  her  with  con 
cern,  and  as  the  time  drew  near  all  felt  that  a  dis 
appointment  would  be  fatal. 

At  length  the  appointed  day  arrived,  and  as  the 
hours  passed  slowly  by  and  no  tidings  came,  there 
\vere  many  anxious  faces  in  the  little  village.  Many 
friends  had  gathered  from  the  country  round,  anx 
ious  to  hear  the  first  news,  and  nothing  was  talked 
of  but  the  one  all-important  subject. 

Abbie,  pale  and  motionless,  sat  in'her  room  at  the 
house  of  her  kind  friend  and  benefactress,  Mrs.  An 
thony.  In  this  room  there  was  a  large  window 
that  overlooked  the-  town,  and  from  it  she  could 
watch  the  approach  of  anyone  from  Squire  Price's. 
By  this  window  she  sat,  scarcely  turning  her  eyes 
from  the  street,  yet  never  uttering  a  word.  About 
three  o'clock  the  long-looked-for  messenger  ap 
peared  in  the  person  of  the  Squire,  and  it  needed 
but  one  look  at  his  face,  beaming  with  pleasure,  to 
tell  her  that  the  treaty  had  been  successful,  and  that 
the  babe  was  safe. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  that 
followed.  Suffice  it  to  say  there  was  great  rejoic 
ing,  and  Abbie  was  conveyed  to  the  home  of  the 
Squire,  almost  without  her  knowledge.  So  great 
had  been  her  anxiety  that  it  seemed  impossible  to 
believe  that  all  was  over,  and  her  babe  safe  at  last. 

She  was  led  into  the  room,  and  when  she  was 
seated,  the  babe  was  placed  in  her  arms.  She 
gazed  at  the  bundle  as  though  she  feared  deception. 


28O  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

This  was  indeed  the  case.  Poor  heart!  she  had 
suffered  so  much  that  happiness  seemed  to  have  en 
tirely  lost  its  place  in  her  heart,  and  when  at  last, 
after  her  long,  weary  waiting,  the  babe  was  on  her 
knee,  she  dared  not  look  into  its  face,  lest  she 
should  find  herself  deceived. 

Mr.  Harrison  had  indeed  refused  to  deliver  the 
babe  into  the  hands  of  its  father,  but  had  concluded 
to  accompany  him,  bringing  the  babe  along.  He 
had  taken  such  good  care  of  it  that  it  had  hardly 
suffered  at  all  from  the  journey,  and  he  had  that 
morning  dressed  it  in  the  suit  in  which  she  had  last 
seen  it,  and  had  not  allowed  its  wraps  removed  till 
it  should  be  placed  in  her  arms,  which  act  had  been 
done  by  his  own  hands. 

Now,  seeing  the  mother's  hesitation,  he  stepped 
forward  and  began  to  remove  the  clothing.  She  at 
first  seemed  willing,  while  an  eager  light  shone  in 
her  eyes,  but  suddenly,  as  its  face  was  about  to  be 
revealed,  she  pushed  his  hands  away,  and,  clasping 
the  bundle  to  her  breast,  she  rocked  to  and  fro, 
while  low  moans  escaped  her  lips. 

It  was  a  heartrending  scene,  and  not  an  eye  in 
all  that  eager  crowd  remained  dry. 

Unable  longer  to  endure  the  sight  of  so  much 
joy,  fear,  and  frenzy,  the  Squire  motioned  to  Mr. 
Harrison,  who  stepped  forward  again,  and  gently 
but  firmly  removed  the  wraps.  The  mother  had 
become  passive,  and  gazed  eagerly  into  the  face  of 
the  infant,  then  minutely  examined  every  article  of 


"SHE  DARED  NOT  LOOK  INTO  ITS  FACE  LEST  SHE  FIND  HERSELF  DECEIVED." 


RECOVERY   OF   THE   CHILD.  28 1 

dress.  The  babe,  who  had  been  sleeping  till  now, 
opened  its  blue  eyes  in  wonder  and  fixed  them  on 
her  face.  She  gazed  into  their  blue  depths  a  mo 
ment,  then,  with  a  glad  cry,  clasped  the  infant  to  her 
breast.  All  doubt  of  its  identity  was  removed,  and 
the  scene  that  followed  beggars  description. 

One  by  one  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  she  was  left 
alone  with  her  joy. 

After  some  time  she  entered  the  family  sitting 
room,  where,  besides  the  family,  only  Mr.  Harrison 
and  Rushford  remained.  Mr.  Harrison  had  never 
seen  her  before  that  day,  but  as  they  conversed  he 
grew  more  interested  in  her,  and  more  dissatisfied 
with  his  brother-in-law.  After  half  an  hour's  con 
versation  he  rose,  and,  bidding  her  good-by,  left  the 
house,  followed  by  Steve,  who  did  not  seem  anxious 
to  prolong  the  interview. 

His  brow  was  black  and  stormy  as  he  withdrew. 
But  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  left  with  her  friends, 
and,  O  joy!  with  her  darling  pressed  to  her  breast. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  know  sorrow 
again. 

She  returned  to  Mrs.  Anthony  that  night.  The 
next  morning  Mr.  Harrison  came  to  see  her  and 
if  necessary  render  her  some  efficient  aid.  He 
talked  very  kindly  to  her,  telling  her  that  after  all 
he  had  seen  and  heard  he  had  no  word  of  blame 
for  her,  and  that  he  was  glad  it  had  fallen  to  his  lot 
to  care  for  her  babe  and  restore  it  to  her  arms. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  come  prepared  in  his 


282  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

own  name  and  that  of  his  wife  to  offer  her  a  per 
manent  home  in  his  family.  All  had  become 
strongly  attached  to  the  little  Ella,  and  it  was  hard 
to  give  her  up,  but  they  felt  that  she  had  the  first 
right,  and  one  they  were  bound  to  recognize.  He 
offered  to  bind  himself  by  a  written  contract,  which 
should  be  left  in  the  hands  of  her  counsel,  to  give 
her  a  home  in  his  family  as  soon  and  as  long  as  she 
pleased.  She  should  fare  in  all  things  as  \vell  as 
they,  and  should  always  be  respected  as  one  of  the 
family.  He  would  also  bind  himself  not  to  harbor 
or  in  any  way  encourage  Steve  while  she  should 
be  there,  or  allow  him  to  force  himself  into  her 
presence,  but  would  protect  her  from  him  at  al'i 
times. 

Abbie  was  deeply  affected,  the  more  so  as  by  re 
port  she  knew  him  to  be  an  honorable  and  upright 
man,  and  one  fully  able  to  fulfill  his  word. 

He  offered  to  do  this,  and,  leaving  the  paper  in 
the  hands  of  an  attorney,  to  put  it  in  her  power  to 
call  upon  him  at  any  time  to  fulfill  his  word. 

She  felt  truly  grateful  for  his  kindness,  though 
she  could  not  accept  it,  and,  therefore,  would  not 
allow  him  to  bind  himself,  and  promised  to  consider 
him  her  friend,  and  should  circumstances  ever  ne 
cessitate  such  a  move,  to  consider  his  offer  open  to 
her. 

Then  he  kissed  the  little  Ella,  and,  bidding  her 
an  affectionate  good-by,  started  for  home  alone, 
Steve  refusing  to  go  with  him,  saying  he  preferred 


RECOVERY  OF  THE  CHILD.         283 

to  remain  near  his  child.  But  Abbie  and  her 
friends  knew  it  was  no  love  for  his  babe  that  actu 
ated  him,  and  that  they  must  again  live  in  constant 
fear  of  molestation. 

And  they  were  not  mistaken.  Hardly  three  days 
at  a  time  passed  in  which  he  did  not  call  to  see  his 
"darling  babe."  On  such  occasions  he  kept  up  a 
constant  grumbling  about  the  treatment  the  child 
received.  Either  she  was  not  dressed  warm  enough, 
or  she  was  togged  up  too  much,  or  he  did  not  be 
lieve  she  was  properly  fed,  and  he  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  come  in  and  take  care  of  her — his  pre 
cious,  abused  baby — always  ending  by  wishing  he 
had  not  brought  her  back. 

Thus  was  Abbie's  life  made  as  miserable  as  it  was 
in  his  power  to  make  it. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE   CASE   FINALLY   DECIDED   IN   ABBIE'S   FAVOR. 

£ 

at 

NE  day  in  March,  after  Abbie  had  returned 
home,  Steve  called  and  seemed  to  be  very 
sad.  As  he  took  the  babe  in  his  arms,  he 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  step  into  Deering's  a  few 
minutes  with  her,  saying  he  would  take  the  bottle 
of  milk  along  and  take  good  care  of  her,  and 
promising  to  bring  her  back  in  an  hour. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  not  let  her  go ! "  cried  Abbie  in  alarm. 

"But  why  not?"  asked  he.  "You  know  I  dare 
not  break  my  word,  and  I  will  surely  bring  her 
back." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  moved  swiftly 
away. 

Abbie  was  much  frightened  at  this,  and,  running 
out,  she  informed  her  brothers,  who  .were  at  work 
in  the  barn,  what  had  occurred.  A  strict  watch 
was  kept,  and  in  about  an  hour  he  was  seen  to  leave 
the  house,  but  instead  of  returning  to  her,  as  he  had 
promised  to  do,  he  started  toward  the  village  with 
the  babe  in  his  arms.  An  alarm  was  instantly  given, 
though  as  secretly  as  possible.  Soon  he  was  seen 
to  enter  the  deserted  house  where  Abbie  had  spent 
(284) 


THE   CASE    DECIDED.  285 

so  many  unhappy  hours,  which  was  now  empty. 
Here  there  was  no  means  of  building  a  fire. 

For  three  hours  he  remaimed  here,  often  going 
to  the  door,  from  which  he  could  be  seen  from 
Mr.  Saunders',  and  tossing  the  babe  up  and  down  to 
try  to  attract  attention.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
being  watched,  but  enjoyed  the  thought  that  they 
dare  not  attack  him.  In  this  he  was  in  one  sense 
right,  for  they  feared  for  the  babe,  and  did  not  mean 
to  attack  him  if  it  could  be  avoided. 

At  last  Ella  grew  indignant  at  such  nursing,  and 
began  to  cry  lustily.  This  made  it  more  unpleasant 
for  both  parties,  and  just  as  the  boys  were  about  to 
enter  at  one  door,  he  passed  out  at  the  other  and 
walked  swiftly  toward  the  house.  Seeing  Abbie 
waiting  at  the  gate  he  turned  abruptly  and  entered 
Mr.  Deering's,  where  he  left  the  child  and  passed 
out  at  the  other  door. 

Raz  had  not  been  far  behind,  and  quickly  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Deering  gladly  gave 
him  the  babe,  and  it  was  soon  safe  in  its  mother's 
arms.  But  Raz  was  not  quick  enough  but  what 
Steve,  who  had  again  entered  the  house,  saw  him, 
and  his  anger  knew  no  bounds.  Running  at  full 
speed,  he  was  soon  at  the  house. 

But  as  he  attempted  to  force  an  entrance,  Raz 
met  him,  and,  presenting  a  pistol,  fired.  But  Steve, 
springing  quickly  to  one  side,  avoided  the  shot,  then, 
springing  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  he  stopped,  and, 
opening  his  vest,  while  he  struck  a  tragic  attitude, 
dared  him  to  fire. 


286  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

Raz  coolly  replied  that  he  did  not  shoot  men  on 
the  public  highway.  Then,  saying  that  the  contract 
with  Abbie  was  broken,  that  she  would  see  him  no 
more,  and  that  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  enter  the 
premises  would  be  considered  trespass,  and  punished 
as  such,  he  entered  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Steve  was  struck  dumb  at  this  announcement. 
He  saw  that  he  had  again  overshot  his  mark,  and 
that  Raz  was  in  earnest,  and  he  felt  convinced  that 
his  persecution  must  cease.  He  could  not  mistake 
the  meaning  of  either  the  words  or  manner  of  Raz, 
and  turning  he  walked  hurriedly  away. 

Abbie  had  heard  the  words  of  her  brother,  and 
she  felt  that  he  would  stand  by  her.  She  had  de 
termined  in  her  heart  that  this  should  break  off  her 
agreement  with  her  tormentor,  and  she  felt  truly 
thankful  that  Raz  was  so  prompt  to  proclaim  her 
freedom.  When  he  entered  the  room,  she  was  weep 
ing  softly  on  her  baby's  neck. 

"Why,  sister  mine,  what  does  this  mean?"  said 
he.  "I  think  you  ought  to  be  laughing  instead  of 
weeping  like  that.  Don't  you  know  this  is  the  best 
day's  work  we  have  done?  Don't  you  see  he  has 
broken  his  agreement,  and  you  are  free?" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "and  my  tears  this  time  are  tears 
of  joy,  partly  that  I  am  free  at  last,  but  more  that  I 
have  such  a  brave  and  loving  brother." 

"I  thank  you  for  the  compliment,  sister  mine, 
though  I  don't  see  much  to  praise.  I  would  have 
been  a  coward  indeed  to  show  fear  at  such  a  time. 


THE    CASE    DECIDED.  287 

And  as  for  the  rest,  how  could  I  help  it,  with  such 
a  sister,  and  such  a  mother?"  and  the  young  man 
looked  fondly  at  his  mother,  whose  eyes  were  full 
of  tears,  while  a  holy  peace  seemed  to  light  up  her 
face. 

She  had  heard  the  conversation  of  her  children, 
and  her  heart  was  raised  in  thankfulness  to  heaven 
for  the  love  that  existed  between  them. 

Abbie's  eyes  followed  those  of  her  brother,  and 
she  felt  the  truth  of  his  words.  How  indeed  could 
they  prove  untrue  to  the  instincts  of  love  and  truth 
with  such  a  mother ! 

Mingled  with  the  feeling  of  joy  and  love  in  the 
heart  of  the  mother  was  one  of  gratitude  to  her 
Heavenly  Father  that  her  son  was  not  a  murderer. 
No  pen  can  describe  the  fear  and  anguish  in  that 
mother's  heart  as  she  saw  the  weapon  in  the  hands 
of  her  son,  pointed,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  unerr 
ing  aim  at  the  head  of  the  intruder.  But  so  sud 
den  had  been  the  movement  that  she  had  no  time 
for  more  than  a  silent  prayer  ere  the  danger  was 
past,  and  her  heart  rose  to  God  in  praise  that  his 
hands  were  still  unstained  with  blood. 

Something  of  the  same  feeling  found  its  place  in 
the  heart  of  the  brother  and  sister,  and  who  shall 
say  that  the  mother's  unspoken  prayer  did  not  re 
ceive  its  answer. 

All  this  had  passed  in  much  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it,  and  Andy  and  Will  did  not  reach 
the  house  until  Steve  was  leaving  it.  They  soon 


288  ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

heard  all  there  was  to  tell,  and  all  agreed  that  the 
contract  had  been  rendered  null  and  void  by  this 
act  of  Steve's.  Yet  they  did  not  believe  he  would 
acknowledge  this,  and  Raz  proposed  that,  as  the 
court  would  not  meet  until  the  twenty-fifth  of  April, 
Abbie  should  be  secretly  conveyed  to  some  safe  re 
treat,  where  her  presence  would  remain  unknown  to 
her  enemy,  and  thus  she  would  escape  further  an 
noyance. 

She  tremblingly  accepted  the  proposition.  The 
only  thing  that  remained  to  be  done  was  to  fix  upon 
the  proper  place  and  manner  of  conveying  her  there. 
Raz  had  his  plans  well  laid,  but  it  was  decided  to 
wait  until  the  father's  return  before  settling  their 
plans. 

Mr.  Saunders  returned,  and  was  informed  of  the 
occurrence  of  the  day.  He  was  greatly  troubled. 
The  anxiety  of  the  last  few  months  had  told  upon 
him,  and  he  knew  not  what  to  do.  When,  there 
fore,  Raz  laid  his  proposition  before  him,  he  grasped 
it  eagerly,  wondering  that  he  had  not  thought  of  it 
before. 

"  I  know  just  the  place  for  her,"  he  said,  his  face 
lighting  up  with  animation. 

"Where?"  asked  two  or  three  at  once. 

"You  know  where  I  went  this  winter  for  provis 
ions." 

"  High  Forest,"  said  Raz  quickly. 

"The  same.  Well,  I  got  my  provisions  of  an  old 
farmer  by  the  name  of  Hill.  I  have  often  spoken 
of  him." 


THE   CASE    DECIDED.  289 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Raz,  impatiently  waiting  for 
more. 

"  I  have  seldom  formed  the  acquaintance  of  a  man 
I  would  as  willingly  trust  as  Mr.  Hill.  I  believe  our 
regard  is  mutual,  and  that  he  would  as  gladly  do 
me  a  good  turn  as  I  would  him.  I  was  thinking 
of  going  there  to-morrow  for  fresh  supplies,  and 
could  take  Abbie  along,  and,  if  all  was  agreeable, 
leave  her  there.  No  one  in  these  parts  knows  of  my 
acquaintance  in  that  place,  and  she  will  be  perfectly 
safe." 

This  plan  met  the  approval  of  all  concerned.  It 
was  decided  that  they  would  start  at  two  the  next 
morning,  Anda  volunteering  to  accompany  them 
to  guard  against  surprise,  while  Will  and  Raz  re 
mained  at  home  to  lull  suspicion,  and,  if  possible, 
hide  the  fact  of  her  departure  till  the  return  of  Mr. 
Saunders. 

This  settled,  Anda  returned  home  to  acquaint 
his  wife  with  the  plan  and  prepare  for  his  journey. 
Abbie  at  once  set  about  preparations,  while  con 
flicting  emotions  filled  her  heart.  She  felt  that  the 
decision  was  a  wise  one  and  willingly  acquiesced, 
yet  she  dreaded  the  night  journey,  the  exposure  to 
her  babe,  and,  in  spite  of  her  father's  faith  in  the 
willingness  of  his  new  friend  to  receive  her,  she 
dreaded  coming  thus  unexpectedly  upon  them  with 
the  request.  She  had  felt  so  keenly  the  anxiety 
and  care  that  had  come  upon  her  friends  for  her 
sake,  and  she  began  to  look  upon  herself  as  a  bur- 

19 


ABBIE    SAUNDER3. 

den,  and  doubted  that  strangers  would  be  willing 
to  take  upon  themselves  the  responsibility  of  her 
presence.  Instinctively  her  heart  went  up  to  God 
for  support  and  strength,  and  straight  from  the 
presence  of  her  Heavenly  Father  seemed  to  come 
the  all-sufficient  answer,  "Trust  in  me,  my  child." 
Never  had  the  blessed  words  sounded  sweeter  to 
her  ears  than  at  this  moment.  Looking  up  toward 
heaven,  she  cried  fervently,  "O  God,  I  thank  thee 
that  I  have  a  God  in  whom  I  can  trust."  She  re 
tired  that  night  with  more  of  love  and  trust  than 
fear  and  dread  in  her  heart. 

She  was  aroused  at  one  by  her  mother,  and,  after 
a  hasty  toilet,  went  to  her  parents  in  the  kitchen, 
where  a  warm  meal  had  been  prepared,  and  where 
they  were  soon  joined  by  Anda  and  Mr.  Thomas, 
who  had  volunteered  to  accompany  them. 

They  had  just  finished  the  midnight  meal  when 
Will  and  Raz  announced  that  the  team  was  waiting. 
With  many  sweet  words  of  encouragement  from 
her  mother,  she  bade  her  a  tearful  good-by,  and  they 
were  soon  on  the  road. 

It  was  a  cold,  dark  night,  lighted  only  by  the 
faint  glimmer  of  the  stars,  and  as  Abbie  took  her 
seat  in  the  sleigh  and  was  closely  tucked  in  with 
blankets,  a  terrible  sense  of  loneliness  came  over 
her;  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  and  a  choking  sensa 
tion  nearly  stopped  henbreath. 

"When  will  this  weary  wandering  cease,  and  I 
be  allowed  to  rest?"  she  cried.  Bowing  her  head 


THE   CASE    DECIDED.  2QI 

over  her  babe,  she  allowed  the  tears  to  flow  for  a 
time  unchecked.  None  would  ever  know  the  bit 
ter  pain  it  had  cost  her  to  consent  thus  to  throw 
herself  upon  the  hospitality  of  strangers,  or  how 
strongly  tempted  she  had  been  to  beg  her  parents 
to  let  her  remain  with  them.  Her  objections  had 
been  checked  at  first  by  sympathy  for  them,  then 
her  judgment  told  her  that  the  plan  was  a  good 
one,  yet  there  had  been  such  a  longing  to  remain 
with  her  friends,  and  such  a  dread  of  strangers  and 
trusting  her  safety  with  them,  that  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  that  she  could  hide  her  feelings  from  them. 

When  morning  made  its  appearance,  it  found  our 
heroine  in  a  more  calm  state  of  mind.  With  a  de 
termined  effort  she  had  succeeded  in  putting  her 
feelings  aside,  and  appearing  quite  cheerful  during 
the  hours  of  preparation  for  her  journey.  Not  till 
she  was  snugly  tucked  in  among  the  robes,  and 
fairly  out  into  the  night,  with  the  curtain  of  dark 
ness  around  her,  did  she  give  way  to  her  feelings. 
Then  she  wept  bitterly  for  a  time,  wept  from 
mingled  exhaustion  and  dread  of  what  was  still  to 
come.  It  seemed  hard  that  she,  who  had  always 
tried  to  have  her  ways  governed  by  the  Bible  rules 
of  right  and  wrong,  should  be  called  to  suffer  so; 
that  while  others,  who  seemed  governed  only  by 
their  own  sweet  wills,  were  the  possessors  of  sweet 
homes  and  kind  husbands,  she  must  go  out  into 
the  strange  world,  among  strange  faces,  and  in 
strange  places,  to  seek  the  protection  of  a  hidden 


292  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

home.     How  hard  it  seemed,  and  how  bitter  the 
tears  she  shed ! 

At  first  her  thoughts  were  entirely  of  herself,  and 
full  of  pity  for  herself,  that  she  must  bear  so  hard  a 
lot.  But  soon  she  began  to  notice  her  surround 
ings.  They  were  out  on  the  bleak,  snow-covered 
prairie,  with  no  habitation  of  man  in  sight.  The 
wind  blew  in  fierce  gusts,  often  whirling  the  snow 
in  their  faces,  and  in  the  bitter  cold  the  fine  parti 
cles  seemed  like  needles. 

As  she  noticed  all  this,  the  feeling  of  loneliness  in 
creased,  almost  to  desperation.  Just  then  her  father, 
who  sat  on  the  seat  in  front  of  her,  groaned  aloud, 
as  he  shifted  in  his  seat,  apparently  to  find  an  easy 
position. 

The  sound  smote  her  to  the  heart.  Poor,  dear 
old  father!  How  much  he  was  suffering  and  en 
during  for  her  sake!  How  feeble  and  worn  he 
looked!  Her  heart  warmed  with  love  for  him,  he 
who  ought  to  be  safe  in  bed  this  bitter  night.  Then 
her  thoughts  flew  back  over  the  last  four  months. 
She  thought  of  the  many  nights  of  broken  rest,  of 
the  many  journeys  through  the  bitter  cold  he  had 
endured  for  her.  How  kind  and  loving  he  had 
been  to  her  all  this  time,  never  seeming  to  think  of 
himself  or  the  trouble  she  caused  him,  but  ever 
pitying  her  for  her  sufferings! 

Then  away  flew  her  busy  mind  back  to  the  years 
of  her  childhood,  with  her  father's  form  continually 
before  her.  She  remembered  how  she  had  been 


THE    CASE    DECIDED.  293 

led  to  accept  Christ  as  her  Saviour  through  his 
kind  teaching,  when  only  ten  years  of  age ;  how  she 
had  tried  to  do  her  duty  in  the  fear  of  God  ever 
since,  and  then,  as  she  thought  of  her  present  situa 
tion,  a  something  akin  to  rebellion  began  to  creep 
into  her  heart. 

But  her  thoughts  did  not  rest  here.  They  seemed 
determined  to  make  her  see  herself  and  her  past 
life  as  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  She  remem 
bered  how  happy  she  had  been  when  Steve  Rush- 
ford  first  came  to  her  father's  house. 

She  thought  of  her  former  lover,  and  of  her  re 
fusal  of  him  without  the  advice  of  her  parents,  al 
though  she  well  knew  he  was  approved  of  them; 
then  of  her  acceptance  of  this  man  in  the  same 
way,  leaving  her  parents  to  consent  or  force  her  to 
break  her  word.  She  thought  of  that  earnest  talk 
with  her  father  when  his  consent  was  asked.  He 
had  tried  to  persuade  her  to  wait  for  one  year,  but 
she  had  refused  even  this. 

Had  she  been  actuated  by  the  right  spirit  in  those 
days?  Had  she  been  seeking  divine  aid  and  walk 
ing  in  the  fear  of  God?  Her  heart  seemed  to  cease 
beating  as  she  asked  herself  these  questions.  She 
could  but  answer,  No.  For  the  first  time  in  all 
these  weary  months  she  began  to  see  that  her  trouble 
had  been  brought  about  by  her  own  acts.  Had 
she  shown  a  disposition  to  listen  to  her  father's  ad 
vice,  she  felt  sure  he  would  have  saved  her  from  all 
this  trouble.  She  had  not  meant  to  be  ungrateful 


294  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

or  disobedient,  but  she  now  saw  that  she  had  been 
both.  Yet  as  she  looked  back  over  the  last  few 
months,  she  remembered  that  she  had  received 
nothing  but  kindness  at  his  hands.  Not  once  had 
he  reproached  her  for  her  disobedience.  Though 
bowed  down  with  grief,  he  had  ever  been  kind  and 
tender  with  her. 

As  she  thought  of  these  things,  her  heart  seemed 
filled  with  a  strange  commotion.  The  thought  of 
the  unwavering  tenderness  of  her  earthly  father 
brought  thoughts  of  the  goodness  of  her  heavenly 
Father,  who,  though  she  had  sinned,  had  not  for 
saken  her,  but  had  delivered  her  from  her  persecu 
tor — for  such  she  now  considered  him  whom,  in 
girlish  ignorance,  see  had  promised  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey. 

She  felt  thankful  that,  in  looking  back  over  her 
life  with  Rushford,  she  could  find  nothing  to  re 
proach  herself  with.  She  had  faithfully  tried  to  do 
her  duty  by  him,  and  had  tried  with  all  her  might 
to  avert  the  trouble  which  came  at  last.  She  had 
been  convinced  for  some  time  before  their  separation 
that  he  not  only  did  not  love  her,  but  that  he  was 
growing  tired  of  the  quiet  life  he  was  forced  to  live. 

As  these  thoughts  crowded  through  her  mind, 
the  babe  in  her  arms  stirred  uneasily,  and  her 
thoughts  at  once  turned  toward  it.  Her  feelings 
had  been  softened  and  subdued  by  the  thoughts  she 
had  indulged,  and  now  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
the  goodness  of  God  in  bringing  her  through  all 


THE    CASE    DECIDED. 


295 


her  troubles,  even  to  returning  her  babe  safely  to 
her  arms,  came  over  her. 

Her  feelings  were  fairly  transformed.  The  very 
journey  she  was  now  making,  which  a  few  moments 
before  seemed  such  a  trial,  she  was  willing  now  to 
accept  as  a  blessing,  for  was  it  not  to  bear  her, 
with  her  precious  babe,  to  a  haven  of  safety?  In 
this  new  light  how  foolish  seemed  her  former  re- 
pinings!  The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  un 
grateful  it  seemed. 

With  an  earnest  prayer  for  forgiveness  for  past 
sins,  and  for  strength  to  live  a  different  life,  she  de 
termined  to  spend  no  more  time  in  fruitless  repin- 
ings,  but  to  accept  the  blessings  that  came  to  her 
lot  and  make  the  most  of  them. 

When  morning  came,  it  found  her  in  a  more  hope 
ful  state  of  mind  than  she  had  been  in  since  her 
trouble  began.  After  a  short  halt  to  feed  their 
teams,  they  passed  on,  and  two  o'clock  r.  M.  found 
them  at  their  destination. 

As  they  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  farmhouse, 
Mr.  Hill  came  out  to  meet  them.  He  was  a  tall, 
heavily-built  man,  with  a  ruddy  face  and  a  kindly 
smile,  and  he  gave  them  such  a  hearty  welcome 
that  it  sent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  through  Abbie's 
heart.  All  feelings  of  dread  left  her.  When  he  ush 
ered  them  into  the  large,  old-fashioned  kitchen,  and 
she  met  Mrs.  Hill,  she  felt  that  they  were  indeed 
friends. 

The  noon  meal,  which  had  been  delayed  on  ac- 


296  ABBIE   SAUNDERS. 

count  of  the  absence  of  some  of  the  family,  was 
announced.  As  they  gathered  about  the  table, 
the  warmest  seats  were  reserved  for  their  guests. 
After  all  were  served,  the  conversation  became  gen 
eral,  and  Abbie  had  time  to  scan  the  faces  before 
her.  At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  the  farmer ;  at  his 
right  sat  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  twelve,  with  a  bright, 
independent  air,  showing  that  she  appreciated  the 
position  of  only  daughter ;  and  knew  how  to  make 
the  most  of  it  At  his  left  sat  Wallace,  the  oldest 
son,  who  was  a  little  under  the  medium  size,  with 
a  quiet  manner,  while  the  expression  of  his  eyes 
and  mouth  showed  him  to  be  firm  as  well  as  kind. 
Next  sat  Marion.  He  was  tall,  strongly  built  like 
his  father;  he  had  light  blue  eyes,  a  smiling  face, 
and  seemed  to  be  running  over  with  fun ;  it  was 
easy  to  see  he  was  loved  by  all,  and  adored  by  the 
little  ones.  Abbie  felt  that  she  had  indeed  fallen 
into  good  hands,  and  no  longer  wondered  at  her 
father's  choice  of  a  place  of  hiding  for  her.  The 
evening  passed  pleasantly  away,  and  when,  in  the 
morning,  Abbie  saw  her  father  drive  away,  it  was 
with  less  of  regret  than  she  would  have  thought 
possible  twenty -four  hours  before. 

Abbie  had  requested  that  she  might  be  allowed 
to  assist  in  the  household  duties,  feeling  that  she 
could  better  endure  the  hours  of  waiting.  Her 
friends  had  kindly  given  their  consent,  so,  as  soon 
as  her  father  had  disappeared  from  sight,  she  re 
turned  to  the  kitchen ,  went  resolutely  to  work,  and, 


THE    CASE    DECIDED.  297 

as  the  hours  of  the  day  passed  pleasantly  away,  she 
was  surprised  at  the  feeling  of  rest  and  quiet  that 
settled  down  upon  her,  and  ere  she  retired  to  rest, 
she  put  up  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  her  Father 
in  heaven,  who  she  knew  was  watching  over  her 
for  good,  and  then  slept  as  she  had  not  slept  for 
many  a  night.  The  next  day,  and  for  several  days, 
the  weather  continued  fine,  but  the  2Oth  of  March 
a  terrible  storm  set  in,  the  snow  falling  thick  and 
fast,  the  wind  blowing  fiercely,  piling  the  snow  in 
drifts  in  the  fence  corners  and  filling  the  hollows  in 
some  places  twenty  feet  deep.  It  raged  as  only  a 
western  blizzard  can,  making  man  and  beast  appre 
ciate  shelter  and  food  for  several  days  ;  then  it  cleared 
away,  leaving  the  air  clear  and  cold,  but  soon  chang 
ing  to  milder  weather,  showing  signs  of  a  thaw.  All 
were  glad  of  the  change,  for  they  were  getting  tired 
of  winter,  and  knew  that  the  fields  would  soon  be 
green  again. 

None  but  those  who  have  spent  a  winter  on  the 
broad  prairies  of  Minnesota,  or  a  similar  place,  can 
ever  realize  the  thrill  of  pleasure,  accompanied  by 
renewed  vigor,  that  fills  the  whole,  being  of  man, 
woman,  and  child,  as,  by  one  sign  after  another,  they 
mark  the  sure  change  from  winter,  with  all  its  ter 
rors,  to  spring,  with  its  sweet,  balmy  air,  which 
transforms  the  snow-clad  earth  to  a  garden  with 
greensward  and  springing  flowers. 
'  Abbie  and  her  new-found  friends  were  not  uncon 
scious  of  its  influence.  So  kind  were  Abbie's  friends, 


ABBIE    SAUNDERS. 

and  so  peaceful  were  the  days,  that  life  seemed 
brighter  than  she  had  dared  to  hope  it  would  be, 
and  hope  began  once  more  to  spring  up  in  her 
heart. 

Little  Ella  had  lost  that  pinched,  pitiful  look 
which  had  touched  the  heart  of  everyone  who  saw 
her  on  her  return,  and  was  growing  fat  and  plump. 
As  Abbie  felt  the  dear  baby  arms  clasped  about  her 
neck,  her  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  to  Him  who 
had  preserved  her  precious  one  and  returned  her 
safe  to  her  arms.  Each  day  she  strove  to  conse 
crate  herself  anew  to  His  service.  She  no  longer 
felt  to  murmur  at  her  lot,  but  strove  in  every  way 
to  prove  her  appreciation  of  the  kindness  bestowed 
upon  her  by  these  new  friends. 

At  last  the  long-looked-for  day  had  come  and 
passed.  A  letter  was  received  bearing  the  precious 
news  of  her  freedom,  and  that,  on  a  certain  date,  her 
friends  would  come  for  her.  Mingled  with  the  feel 
ing  of  joy  at  the  prospect  of  again  being  at  home 
was  that  of  sadness  at  parting  with  those  who,  in 
time  of  need,  had  proved  themselves  to  be  friends 
indeed. 

And  when,  one  beautiful  morning  in  April,  she 
took  leave  of  the  farmer's  family  and  set  out  for 
home,  she  felt  that  she  was  leaving  friends  behind 
her.  As  she  neared  home  she  felt  some  misgivings 
lest  new  trials  should  await  her,  but  these  fears  were 
groundless,  for  Rushford  had  given  up  the  contest, 
and  she  never  saw  him  again. 


THE    CASE    DECIDED.  299 

In  time  she  came  to  feel  more  secure  and  even 
happy.  A  few  years  after,  she  married  a  gentleman 
who  proved  to  be  a  tender  and  loving  husband,  and 
a  kind  and  indulgent  father  to  Ella. 

Abbie  is  now  the  mother  of  a  large  family  of  sons 
and  daughters,  who  are  at  once  her  pride  and  joy. 
But  all  her  days  of  joy  or  sorrow  are  softened  by 
the  memory  of  those  days  of  trial  and  final  triumph, 
and  the  precious  lessons  of  faith  and  trust  taught 
her  by  her  mother. 

Here  my  story  ends.  If  the  perusal  of  this  little 
volume  shall  cause  one  maiden  who  is  inclined  to 
take  the  vows  of  matrimony  upon  herself  without 
due  consideration,  to  pause  and  think  ere  it  is  too 
late,  and  thus  escape  a  similar  fate,  the  writer 
feel  amply  repaid  for  her  labor. 


Vf,     30 


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